


a thousand cities, a thousand houses

by duchamp



Category: Sicario (2015)
Genre: F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5046928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a personal tragedy upends the quiet stability Kate has managed to establish after her stint with Matt’s task force, it triggers a career change—one that finds Kate on the end of a long proverbial leash. Given boundless professional parameters, Kate finds herself making more deviceful decisions when it comes to resolving external conflicts. Or, as Alejandro puts it sitting across from her in a conference room at Langley: when results are worth everything, the ability to doubt ceases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hers, alone

 

 

“There was a silence. Something real was happening: this was, as it were, her life. If she could keep that in mind she would be able to play it through, do the right thing, whatever that meant.”

 —JOAN DIDION, _Play It as It Lays_

 

 

Relax. R-E-L-A-X. Deep breath. Count: One, two, three, four, five. Repeat. You’re okay. You’re alright.

Relax. R-E-L-A-X. Deep breath. Count: One, two, three, four, five.

Repeat.

 

\--

 

The day you’re supposed to die starts like any other. They fail to teach you that little kernel of knowledge in school. There isn’t anything special about it, because you’re not special. And, in the grand scheme of things, the world will continue to spin without you. Your family and friends will move on; they’ll continue to go to work, take their kids to the park, make those quick thirty minutes or less Rachael Ray dinners, and get together for Monday night football. This will all happen without you.

“My name is Kate Macer,” that’s how the report starts. For the official record.

How it should start is this: My name is Kate Macer, and today I almost died.

 

\--

 

It’s sunny and bright. The pavement burns like it has a grudge against anyone walking in their bare feet. The heat becomes an almost tangible thing. A typical day in Chandler, Arizona.

Kate doesn’t mind the heat; she’s used to it by now. Three years in Chandler, you learn to adapt. That, or you hibernate—rotating between your apartment, your office cubby, and your car. Anywhere with air conditioning.  It also helps that Kate’s only wearing a white cotton camisole and hip-huggers from one of those 2-in-1 packs that she bought at Sam’s Club the week before. That’s her uniform when she’s at her apartment, and not on-call. Yes, that’s right. When there aren’t any hostages to save, the response unit’s team leader curls up in her underwear on the couch and watches television all day. And, it just happens to be one of those days. Thank fucking Jesus H. Christ and the Virgin Mary and all the goddamn saints.

The Grape-Nuts are almost completely gone and so is the milk. But, there’s enough to fill a single bowl for breakfast. The grocery store can wait until tomorrow. Kate takes down one of those discounted plastic bowls, fifty cents at the dollar store, and pours out the Grape-Nuts. She makes sure that every drop of milk goes in there too, then grabs a serving spoon and takes a whooping bite. Kate, mind your manners. Her mother’s voice is always in the back of her head like an itch.

Sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal and nowhere to be feels a million times better than a cigarette, a drink, or even an open-mouthed kiss. On CNN, a blonde reporter with impeccable curls, wearing a three-piece suit that probably costs more than Kate’s entire wardrobe of jeans and t-shirts, talks about the current Democratic debate. Kate self-consciously runs a hand through her hair, matted and wet from the shower earlier, and decides she wants orange juice.

Kate puts her bowl down on the coffee table, and stands up. A whizzing sound goes past her head. Her ankle twists, and she falls. There’s a blinding pain coming from her arm, and Kate’s eyes blur with tears. There’s a bullet in her shoulder.

And many, many more start coming through the sliding glass door to her balcony.

Kate manages to crawl on her belly to the bedroom, and grabs her cell phone to call 9-1-1. It’s almost surreal and hazy, when Kate realizes that she’s also been hit near her ribs.

She passes out.  

 

\--

 

“Don’t eat that dear,” her mother says.

Kate looks down at the double-chocolate cheesecake mournfully. I never eat sweets; she wants to say. Why can’t I today? It’s a special occasion, after all.

There’s a _Happy 10 th Birthday Katherine_ written in golden marzipan at the center of the cake, but Mrs. Macer is unmoved. “That’s for the guests, Katherine.” She smiles down at her daughter, a matte red lipstick smile, an old Hollywood starlet type smile. “You want to fit into your school uniform, don’t you?”

Kate nods. Her ponytail feels like it’s been tied too tightly. But, it looks nice and neat. The daughter of tenured NYU professor Brian Macer and his wife, Cynthia. The perfect child. The child that’s never had to be on a waiting list for any of the prestigious parochial schools. Her parents have extensively planned her academic vitae since kindergarten. That’s a must if you want to get into an Ivy at eighteen.

“You want to open presents?” Cynthia Macer asks, and Kate turns away from that double-chocolate cheesecake, denied.

 

\--

 

The smell of Lysol, a grey ceiling. A nurse with hair like a Suzy Homemaker doll. Flowers and cards.

Hospitality in hospitals, the play by play.

And there are many flowers, but Dave’s the only person sitting in Kate’s private room in the ICU. Turns out, the rule of ‘family only’ when it comes to intensive care can be broken when there’s a guard detail stationed outside your door.

Dave tells her what happened to Reggie, and she knows deep down it’s all her fault. “Don’t go into the bank,” Matt said. And, just like a toddler trying to show a parent she could disobey, she went into the bank. It’s all good to bust several cartel assholes who might not remember your face after you slam an SRT van into the drywall of one of their jefe’s many houses, but a security camera’s eye is undiscerning. It remembers. Footage is forever.

“I don’t understand,” Dave says, “how a sniper could miss.”

“Didn’t miss,” Kate mumbles. “If I hadn’t moved off the couch to get some orange juice, whoever the fuck it was would have gotten me right in the head.”

 

\--

 

Reggie went into the bank with her because he was her partner.

Reggie went into the bank with her because he was her friend. Compadre. Mano a mano.

Reggie went into the bank with her because he was Reggie. Because he walked the same moral band she did. Let’s try to have some law and order, here.

Turns out, law and order got him killed.

 

\--

 

Matt calls.

Kate’s urinating into a pink plastic bedpan that the nurse is holding under her, and fucking Matt calls. It goes to voicemail. The nurse cleans her up after, and Kate returns the call. She wouldn’t, but she needs someone to rage at. And while she’s confined to this hospital room, with it’s sterile white curtains and TV with seven stations, Matt will do.

He picks up after the third ring, and Kate goes off like a fucking piston. “How did this happen,” she asks, “when the whole point of your stint five weeks ago was to _end_ Alarcón and his people? Let me guess, you cut off the head but the snake’s still squirming.”

“Something like that,” Matt says.

“I was _out._ I was done. I was no one, nothing. I had no affiliation with you or your fucking lackeys anymore and neither did Reggie.”

Matt lets out an exaggerated sigh on the other end. It’s not without sympathy, just patience. “Because this is what it is, Kate. Bottom line, no bullshit.” Matt’s voice is even. Calm, collected. Words measured as if he was speaking to a dumb child. “Your name is on a list, in a book that’s a fucking novel by now. Once you’re on that list, Kate, once you’re in that book, you never get out.”

“This is all you damn fault. You used me and now Reggie’s dead and I got clipped and almost fucking checked-out myself.” Kate’s breath comes in hiccups and she wipes away yellow snot and tears from her face with the back of her hand.

“I’m going to call you tonight,” Matt says, “when you’ve calmed down. Ten, sharp. Pick up.”

 

\--

 

The call that comes at ten o’clock is an apology, a helping hand. A mea culpa. _Mea maxima culpa_.

No, it’s a job offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the original premise for this was only supposed to be contained as a simple one-shot. But, I guess it got away from me. lol The characters took on lives of their own and voilà, I'm writing this monster of a multi-chapter fic. The entire structure of this story and the character arcs have been planned out ahead of time, and I'm expecting it to only be five chapters. There might be a sixth, but only if I feel the plot needs more room to breathe. 
> 
> Since I've never done this before, any feedback is greatly appreciated.


	2. a blank to be filled in

 

 

“You don’t let them knock out out, you _make_ them knock you out. You make them break their fucking hands knocking you out, you let them know that they’ve been in a fight, you give them something to remember you by every time they look in a mirror.”

—DON WINSLOW, _The Power of the Dog_

 

 

Breaking a human being is art.

It takes skill. Every individual is unique; a tactic or technique that works on one detainee may not work on another. Considering this, it’s still disgustingly simple work. Kate likens it to breaking in a pair of leather dress shoes. Wear them enough, and they’ll give. It’s inevitable. The same goes for prolonged interrogations. Repeat the same questions and motions enough times, and the individual will break. The interior mind and physical body can only withstand so much.

Biology is a beautiful thing, and persistence is key.

 

\--

 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Kate says. She hopes her voice is even, she really doesn’t want to seem weak.

Brian Macer’s lips thin, and his eyes grow misty. Kate swears he’s about to cry. I didn’t come for this, she thinks. Dad never cries.

“Katherine, what happened is between your mother and I. No one else.”

Kate’s fingers curl around the stem of her espresso cup.  She’s twenty-one, and she’d never seen her father hit her mother until Tuesday of last week. “You slapped my mother,” Kate whispers, careful that none of the other customers in the restaurant hear. “You hit a woman who’s 5’3” and weighs ninety-nine pounds. That’s not something you can hide. You can’t sweep it under the rug and call it a simple argument.”

“Cynthia’s not pressing charges. We’ve forgiven each other.”

“I can’t do this,” Kate says, and leaves.

 

\--

 

The breakfast spread on Friday’s de-brief kills. There’re raspberry jelly doughnuts laid out on a large communal plate, along with grapefruits and apples stacked in a ceramic bowl placed in the middle of the table. Kate even gets to choose between the ‘Vienna Roast’ or the ‘Morning Blend,’ steaming in decanters, when it comes to her coffee. She picks the ‘Vienna,’ and takes a sip. Full-bodied and strong, it helps clear her head.

Kate takes a seat in one of the plush leather chairs, and grabs a powdered doughnut. Biting in, the doughy shell splits, and sweet jelly spills out. Kate makes sure to be careful, wiping the side of her lip delicately with a manicured nail. Sometimes it’s strange, looking at herself in the mirror with both hands painted in nude acrylic polish, highlighting the slate grey of her tweed suit. She used to never be this person, someone who dressed to the nines. But it’s a matter of being in uniform, now.

Matt doesn’t give a damn about a uniform. He strides into the conference room, easy and relaxed wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and tennis shoes. “Carol got you exercising again?” Kate asks, amused.

Matt gives her a murderous glare when he sees the doughnut in her hand. “Yep,” he says, and Kate can’t help laughing. “Hey, it’s not funny. I’m miserable. I can’t eat any of the foods that make me happy and I’m out running on side roads at five in the morning on little to no sleep.”

“Jess still not sleeping through the night?”

“She’s a newborn,” Matt says, sighing. “They _never_ sleep through the night.” Matt starts hooking up the projector, and takes out an external hard-drive to plug into the computer stationed at the front of the room.

Kate straightens up in her chair as everyone else starts to file in through the door. Time to work. Game face. There’s James, Vance, and Steve. Steve’s glasses are askew and he looks as tired as Kate feels. Luckily she had time to put on makeup this morning, so her secret is safe. Amanda at reception even commented on how immaculate Kate’s cheekbones and brows looked. Nothing bronzer and some powder can’t fix, along with two coats of mascara and lipstick. As if the fuck-up’s in Cali and Bogotá didn’t have her loosing sleep. As if. 

Alejandro comes in last. His beard has been trimmed and he’s actually dressed down, wearing a pullover sweater and jeans. Apparently, he didn’t have time to pick his suits up at the dry cleaners. He gives Kate his customary nod and a small smile, and sits in the chair beside her. “Morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” Kate answers.

The lights dim. Matt clears his throat. Standing between the conjuncture of the computer and projector, his silhouette’s black and hazy across the illuminated flatscreen on the wall. “Now that everyone is here, let’s get started.” Matt clicks on the remote in his hand, and the image of a man—sandy brown hair, blue eyes, and freckled skin—pops up on the screen.

“Who are we looking at?” Kate asks.

“Nathaniel Williams,” Matt responds. “Thirty-three years old. Worth about nine-hundred thousand a year. He’s a top accountant with Goldman Sachs. Star pupil at school, prodigious IQ score. Now he’s also gotten into the habit of buying personal yachts, renting high-class prostitutes, and all in all just spending money like it’s on fire. He’s worth a great deal, but not that much. Turns out, he runs money for the Columbian cartel on the side—”

Kate looks down at her notes, her stainless steel Montblanc pen pressing into the lined paper with too much pressure, creating a black blotted stain. She understands that the CIA are in bed with those assholes, Alejandro works as a freelance agent for them for fuck’s sake. And Kate understands why. Controlled chaos. (You do you, just run by any atrocities you’re planning to commit with us first. If it’s too unbearably heinous, we’ll put a pin in it. But if it’s just handling personal shit, like killing the family of a high-ranking member that has a problem with authority, sure. Go ahead. Business is business.) Still, it leaves a rotten taste in her mouth.

“—which we’re completely fine with,” Matt finishes. “Problem is, we think he’s the one funneling money to our little shit starter, Josué Devalos. A wire transfer of five grand was made from Mr. Williams to one of Devalos’ off-shore bank accounts. The money was withdrawn just two days before the bombing of the Bogotá parish.”

“I have contacts who assure me that this attack was not sanctioned by the head,” Alejandro cuts in, stripping away the peel from a grapefruit. “And that he apologizes. Devalos took off before they could get ahold of him.” 

Kate swallows roughly. She remembers looking at the images of the bombing, filed away in a folder at her house, just this morning. Bodies on the dirt ground, resembling burnt meat on a kabob. Children’s clothes, singed and falling apart like crumpled leaves. The statue of the Holy Mother, broken in pieces, a single glass eye still intact and staring straight at Kate, accusingly, through the photograph.

Funny, a month ago the agency considered Devalos an annoying problem that the cartel would eventually deal with themselves. Turns out he was a megalomaniacal and strategic man, who wanted the Colombian cartel out of the CIA’s pocket and was willing to do anything to upset the deal between them. Devalos didn’t expect the level of honest transparency between the two agencies. He could only get away with trying to pin his shenanigans on his jefe for so long.

“What about Nathaniel Williams?” Steve asks. “Have we apprehended him?”

Matt shakes his head, and turns off the projector. The lights flicker back on. “Nope,” he says. “That’s our job now, to find him. His penthouse in New York was completely cleaned out.”

“Let’s get to the computers,” James announces, cracking his knuckles.

Vance chuckles and pats him on the back. “Time to earn our keep,” he says.

Steve lets out a yawn. “Fucker’s going down,” he mumbles.

Kate smirks and looks over to Alejandro, who’s finishing off the last of his grapefruit. Juice drips from the ends of his fingers, and Kate looks away. “Sleep at all?” Kate hedges, closing her notebook and getting out her briefcase.

“Enough,” Alejandro says, and wipes his hands, sticky with residue from the now-eaten fruit, off on his jeans.  

Kate clicks her briefcase shut, and gives up. She spilled her guts out to Alejandro last night and then he fell asleep on her couch, but apparently they’re not going to talk about that. Kate settles on a safe question; “What time did you leave?” I woke up and you were just gone, is what she really wants to say.

“I left at around five,” Alejandro says, and gets up out of his chair. He’s flying off to Colombia to meet up with his contacts this afternoon, and Kate wonders if she should wish him a safe flight. She decides not to. Silently, Kate pushes her chair in and heads for the door. Everyone else has left the conference room by this point.

“Kate…”

Kate stops, and turns. She’s sick of waltzing around this shit. This better be good.

“You look beautiful this morning,” Alejandro says.

 

\--

 

Kate was broken before the CIA got ahold of her. She was used goods before she ever stepped foot into headquarters at Langley. Matt started wearing her down first, and Alejandro picked up the slack. Nameless faces of a subset of the cartel delivered the final, winning blow. Brava, bellissima. They did a hell of a job.

So, it made the quandary of her being hired by the CIA—no military experience, college dropout, jilted from Matt’s task force after a three-day stretch—a bit of a no brainer. All the dirty work was done. All the preliminaries were seen to.

See, the objective of the CIA when recruiting a potential employee is this: they wear you down to your very essence. A physical shell that breathes, eats, and sleeps. Then, they build you back up in their own image. The agency’s image. Process information, protect the homeland. Detect what is a lie and what is the truth. Violence is the harbinger of peace. Show them who’s top dog. Good ol’ U.S. of A.

 

\--

 

“Walk out that door,” Brian Macer says, “and you won’t get a single penny from your trust fund.”

Kate stands at the door of her childhood home; hand on the knob, ready to turn it. She takes a moment to survey the place. Mahogany, nostalgia, and the smell of vanilla suede potpourri that her mother’s been picking up from Neiman Marcus since Kate was five years old. Just a moment, though.

“I never needed anything from you,” Kate says. Her Yale sweatshirt feels heavy on her shoulders. She knows she’ll have to drop out. It’ll be worth it.

 

\--

 

There are many general misconceptions involving work in government intelligence.

For example, to an outsider, field-work would seem like the hardest aspect of the job. When, in actual fact, it’s the waiting that’s the hard part. The waiting. The paperwork. The square desks and clattering of keyboard keys, the decoding of e-mails and chasing leads—when all you have to go on are photographs or video footage that are sometimes decades old. It’s all very monotonous. Not very exciting at all.

“You’ve got something for me?” Kate asks. Steve better. She’s at a dead-end and all she wants is a drink or a handgun to blow her damn brains out.

“Depends on the ‘something.’ If you’re talking about a location for that fucker Nathaniel Williams, no. But, I brought coffee.” Sure enough, Steve’s got a Venti Café Americano in his right hand. He sets it down on the desk in front of Kate and kisses her forehead.

“You’re officially my favorite person on the planet,” Kate says.

“I always wondered why you liked Steve more than me,” Vance announces with feigned jealousy, staring intently at his computer monitor, mouse clicking away.

Kate laughs. “Steve brings me Starbucks,” she answers, and shrugs. “Oh, and Steve; you’ve got your optometrist appointment on Wednesday—”

“At nine o’clock in the morning. I know.” Steve straightens his glasses and shakes his head fondly. “Why do you always feel the need to remind me?”

“Because you always forget,” Kate says.

 

\--

 

Alejandro is a master, and Alejandro is unrelenting. He’s the best teacher. The best to elect to lead the calf into the slaughterhouse, because he shows no mercy. It’s unbearably fascinating, the knack Alejandro has for knowing exactly what to say or do to a detainee; even if it doesn’t lead to a nugget of useful information right away.

Kate’s legs are still wobbly, and her breathing is shallow. She’s green, she’s new. She’s a child. She looks down at Alejandro’s hands, and they’re rusted with dried blood.

“There’s no shame in not going back in,” Alejandro tells her. They’re taking a break. Letting the detainee stew in his own piss and tears. “You could just watch the replay on the tapes, later. Steve’s recording the whole thing for the media files.”

Kate doesn’t even pause. “Let’s go,” she says. Back to the block, no room for hesitation. She’s brave. Alejandro looks at her with pride and something else. Kate thinks it’s fear.   

 

\--

 

“Homeland security beat us to the punch. Tracked down Nathaniel Williams in North Dakota, buying a Milky Way at a gas station. The jackass was out of cash and ran his debit card. _He actually ran his debit card._ Jesus, how stupid can a person be. Just goes to show, those IQ tests mean nothing.” Matt’s noisily chewing peanuts, grease and salt coating his lips. “Kate, you want to take a run at him?”

Kate massages a hand through her hair, and leans back against the wall of Matt’s office. It’s been two weeks and now they finally have their man. “Homeland has begun the interrogation process, yes?”

“Yes,” Matt confirms.

“And what does Williams respond best to?” Offers of clemency, sleep deprivation, lack of nutrition, sensory overload, beatings. Kate wants to narrow it down.

“So far, he’s been withholding. But from what I can glean, physical interrogation seems to be the ticket. If you’re up for it.”

Kate’s never one to say no. “I weigh about one-hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t break him. Bring him in. I’ll just need some assistance. Get me Alejandro.”

“Alejandro’s working in Colombia right now,” Matt says.

“Get him on the next flight out,” Kate says, and Matt relents.

 

\--

 

Kate’s clean and bandaged. Matt cut off the identity wristlet from the hospital with a pair of tiny travel scissors when he came to pick her up. The Sedan’s windows are blacked-out. Curled up in the backseat with a blanket and a pillow, Kate’s never felt so safe.

“We’ve got a choice between McDonald’s or Burger King by the looks of it,” Matt informs her from the front seat. “Which one do you want?”

Kate rubs the sleep from her eyes. Her stomach rumbles. Until Matt said anything, she didn’t even know she was hungry. “McDonald’s,” Kate says.

“I could use a Quarter Pounder.” Matt glances back at Kate, intent and serious. “I’m going to exit the highway, now. We’re going to go through drive-thru. I’m not going to get out of the car, I’m just going to order. Keep lying down and keep your face turned into the pillow until we get back on the interstate.”

Kate blinks back tears. She’s safe. She’s in a car with Matt and he has a long-range rifle and a handgun and Lord knows what government faction on speed dial, and she’s still fucking terrified of going anywhere near a public place. It’s written all over her face, she knows, because Matt immediately shushes her. Like she’s a spooked animal. “Hey,” he says, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’re going to be in Fairfax soon. The agency’s set you up with a beautiful house, okay?”

“Stay?” Kate asks. Stay with me. Don’t leave. I don’t want to die.

“We’ve got someone else to watch you.” Matt flicks his right-turn signal on to take the upcoming exit. “He’s better qualified than me. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

 

\--

 

Nathaniel Williams is sweating bullets like he’s in a damn sauna. His lip is split open and wobbling. And while both his eyes are nearly swelled shut, Kate can see his pupils are constricted with exhaustion. “I won’t tell you anything,” he spits. “Fucking _girl._ ”

Kate leans forward in her chair, her shoulders squared. “You and Josué Devalos killed thirty-three innocent people,” she says, even-toned and collected. “You killed men. You killed the elderly. You killed women and children. Parishioners who were at that church to praise their God, and instead you sent them to him. And you dare sit here and say those words to me?”

Alejandro looks to Kate for confirmation. She nods. He backhands Williams across the face.

“ _Stop_ man,” Williams moans, “just _fucking stop._ ”

“Why are you talking to him?” Kate asks. “He’s not here to speak.”  

And, Alejandro’s not. He’s not there to speak, he’s just there to be the muscle. To be an accessory, Kate’s accessory; a tool for her to use to glean the information she needs. Because this is Kate’s time, and her room, and her detainee. Kate has to admit—to be the one in charge, to be the one calling the shots—it’s a bit of a rush.

 

\--

 

A fucking nightmare, that’s what this is. Reggie was double-tapped in the fucking head and Kate got two bullets planted in her and she managed to live to get to Fairfax County, Virginia and get what looks like a house from Better Homes & Gardens in the shitting suburbs, paid for by the CIA. Jesus Christ.

Kate can’t breathe. She sits naked on porcelain tiles behind a linen curtain with boiling water pouring down on her from a bronze shower-head, and the luxury feels like an old friend. It’s too familiar, reminding her of the wealth of her childhood. Dammit, she should be dead. The stitches on her left rib have ripped, and Kate just lets the wound bleed. What have I done, she thinks. Thinking she could live through this, thinking she could start over. This was a mistake.

“Kate?” There’s a knock on the door. Kate doesn’t say anything.

“I’m coming in.” The door opens, and there’s the sound of socked feet padding across the bathroom floor. A shadow plays across the white of the shower curtain, stagnant and uncertain. “Kate, are you alright?” Again, Kate says nothing. She can’t. She doesn’t think she remembers how to speak.

The curtain is pulled back slightly. Kate’s exposed entirely, wet and wounded, and she doesn’t care. “You’re bleeding,” Alejandro says. Alejandro who saved her life. Alejandro who shot her down while she wore a bulletproof vest. Alejandro who held a handgun under her chin. Alejandro—the guard dog Matt alluded to in the Sedan on the drive over.

This is a fucking nightmare.

“ _Kate._ ” Kate stares straight ahead. She can’t look at him. She just wants to stop living, right now.

There’s the rustle of Alejandro peeling off his socks, of the shower curtain being pulled back completely. He turns the faucet’s knob, making the water more lukewarm and bearable. He steps into the tub, his clothes starting to soak through with the spray beating at his back, and closes the curtain. Cocooned and being lifted by her underarms, Kate feels very far away. “I’ve got you,” Alejandro says, and keeps her upright with one arm behind her back as he begins to lather up her hair with shampoo. It stings, when the soap trickles down to meet her broken stitches. Eventually, the wound stops bleeding and Alejandro turns off the water to help Kate out of the shower and towel them both off. He doesn’t say anything else until Kate’s in bed, wearing a jersey nightgown—one of the many items of clothing provided, along with the furnishings and the two-story house.

Alejandro sits on the bedspread while Kate’s tucked under it, wet hair fanning the down pillow.

“Listen,” Alejandro says, “what you’re feeling now is nothing. It’s shock. When grief hits, and it will, it’s going to be much worse. This is going to be awful. This is going to be terrible, and it’s never going to get better. But, you’ll get past it. You’ll get past it, because you're still alive and you don’t have a choice. Understand?”

And, for some indiscernible reason, Kate feels like she can breathe again. She nods. She understands.

 

\--

 

“Is that man your friend?”

Alejandro’s left Kate with the detainee. Probably went to get a fresh pair of gloves after the other pair started getting holes in them. It’s been four hours of this hell, and Kate’s already becoming strangely accustomed to it. She doesn’t feel the urge to cough up her lunch, at least.

“Is that man your friend?” Number One asks, again. Kate calls him Number One, because it’s her first interrogation. Her first time shadowing Alejandro. Watch and learn, Matt had said.

Kate decides there’s no harm in answering, and settles on the truth. “Yes.”

“He’s an animal,” Number One breathes. “Help me. Please.”

Kate shakes her head. “Help yourself. Tell the truth, and he’ll stop.”

The door to the room opens and Kate turns, her pearl earrings dangling by her neck. Alejandro steps in. Round three. Eventually, Number One will break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire work has to be the hardest thing I've ever attempted to write, so I hope as it goes along everything reads/meshes well. Also, a huge thank you to everyone who posted kind words of encouragement and compliments on the last chapter. I really, really appreciate it.


	3. futures that won’t have any history

 

 

“I feel I stand in a desert with my hands outstretched, and you are raining down upon me.”

 —PATRICIA HIGHSMITH, _The Price of Salt_

 

 

Everywhere smells of gasoline and burning flesh. 

Kate’s head feels heavy, an aching weight. Her arm is bleeding. Jagged lines of red, deep and ugly. She’s covered in debris from the car. Rubber, metal, oil, and plastic. Kate tries to get up, but her limbs won’t obey her. The ground is too hard and too hot, and she can’t get up. The sun is unforgiving and beating down on her broken body, and she can’t get up. “Help,” Kate croaks, although she can barely breathe. Her throat is raw from screaming.

She can hear street-vendors and civilians. There are names being called and shouts for help, but more than anything Kate feels their feet. The vibrations of them, hitting the pavement as they run far away. Far away from her. Her time is up. Her card has been picked. She drew from the wrong stack, and now her time is up.

Kate wants Alejandro, here. She wants him to hold her. And she feels horribly guilty, because this is going to fucking kill him. He warned her, and she didn’t listen. He let her go, and she left without turning back. But, Kate supposes the blame can’t rest entirely on her shoulders. These are risks they take everyday, in their line of work.

 

\--

 

The vacuum is running, a low hum against the carpet. Kate’s in her living room, getting all the dust out from under the couch. Spring cleaning: something normal, for once. Kate holds the vacuum’s handle in her left hand; methodically dragging it back and forth, back and forth. In her right hand, Kate holds her third cigarette of the day. One drag, two. The warmth hits her lungs like a shot of whiskey going down her throat. This is a habit she’s consistently failed to break for over five years, now. The taste of nicotine against her tongue is too much of a comfort to stop.

The doorbell rings. And it’s a Sunday, so what the fuck? A full twenty-four hours without having to have to go to work or have files dropped off, that’s all Kate wants. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup and she’s wearing sweats. Hell, she was even supposed to watch a movie in the evening and actually break out the chocolate and tequila that’s been stashed in her pantry for months.

The doorbell rings again. So much for simple pleasures. “Motherfucker,” Kate mutters under her breath, cigarette still hanging between her lips, and turns off the vacuum. After checking her messy ponytail in the foyer’s mirror, Kate goes to open the door. She can’t be blamed if she doesn’t look like the model of professionalism. Catch Kate on weekends at home, this is what her constituents are going to get. And surprise, surprise—Alejandro’s standing on the porch, his jacket buttoned-up against the mild wind and a garment bag in his hand.

Fuck her life. Kate’s happy he’s back and safe, really she is, but fuck her life. Kate’s about to tell Alejandro as much, tell him that while she’s glad he’s back, she doesn’t want him here. At least not until he figures his shit out, thank you very much. But, Alejandro beats her to it. “Smoking?” He asks, and grins; one of those rare grins that actually shows all of his teeth, and it feels too intimate and too familiar and _dammit he doesn’t have the right._

“Obviously,” Kate says, aiming for nonchalance, trying not to sound too defensive.

The wind picks up, and the metal chimes hanging by the door start to clang together in a rhythmic dance. Alejandro steps forward, already expecting to be let in. As if it was his house, too. And it was, in many ways—but only for the duration of a week, two years ago. Kate steps aside, lets him in. There’s no use in pretending there are any boundaries between them, not anymore. Even if Kate’s upset and angry. Even if she feels rejected.

“Last week you said you were quitting,” Alejandro says, his back turned to Kate, heading to the living room. He sidesteps around the vacuum and places his garment bag down. He settles onto the couch, unbuttons his jacket.

“Yeah, well...” Kate trails off. Alejandro already knows all of this. He knows all of her vices. He just pretends not to. Kate sits on the other end of the couch, a safe distance between them, and puts out her cigarette in the ashtray on the end table. A plume of smoke puffs up, flickering gold and black, bits of ash spreading. “Alejandro, why are you here?”

“I got back from Mexico.”

Kate nods. She doesn’t ask how Mexico was, because you don’t ask questions you already know the answers to. She knows how Mexico was. “You could have just called.”

“I could have,” Alejandro says. He doesn’t say, because I wanted to see you. He doesn’t say, because your house is the closest thing to a home. Alejandro rarely elaborates beyond the basic necessities of speech. It’s an aspect of his personality Kate’s had time to get used to, but now it’s starting to grate.

Minutes pass, and they simply sit in silence. Alejandro leans into the back of the couch, legs stretched out, arms at his sides, relaxed, looking at Kate as if he expects her to continue this parody of small talk. He’s all black denim and silver buttons against the beige-cream leather; and Kate really just wants to touch him, if she’s being honest with herself. She swallows. Her chest feels too tight. Fuck her poker face. She’ll probably regret this, but it’s about time she said something. “I can’t do this,” Kate says. “How do you do this? Pretend that everything’s the same, that everything’s okay? Maybe it’s just me. You tell me if I’m making this up, if this is all in my head, because—”

Alejandro kisses her. He’s already closed the foot of space between them. The palm of his hand, weathered and gentle, is at the base of Kate’s neck. He pulls back for an instant. His breath is warm on Kate’s cheek. “Alright?” He asks. It’s a question and an answer at the same time.

Kate reaches for his shoulder, fingers squeezing the muscle there. Alejandro smells of stale recycled air from the plane. “Alright,” she says. Her voice shakes. She’s not embarrassed. And then his tongue is in her mouth, lightening-quick, wet and inviting, and Kate can’t help but feel that this—his hands on her, her hands on him—has been on pause for two years. Kate grabs ahold of Alejandro’s jacket, denim under her hands, so different from the bemberg-lined suits he usually wears, and shrugs it off. His mouth moves down to her neck. “Fuck,” Kate breathes.

They’re not going upstairs, to the bedroom. They’re not stopping. There’s always been no stopping this.

 

\--

 

He’s called Dan. Or, at least, that’s the name he gave Kate last night. Rather a plain name, Dan. Then again, Kate thinks, so hers. _Kate._ One syllable, no frills. She doesn’t think of herself as ‘Katherine,’ anymore. She hasn’t for a long time. Dan’s stretched across the rumpled sheets, stained with come and stinking of sweat. He moans, eyes opening slowly, squinting against the harsh light coming in from the open blinds. Dan has hazel-green eyes, with ash-blond hair and ash-blond stubble peppering his chin. Kate can still feel the burn on the inside of her thighs from when he went down on her the night before. “Kate?” He calls, his voice a hung-over slur.

“I’m here,” Kate says. She’s dressed while Dan’s still stripped, standing while he’s still lax and prone on the bed.

“Where are you going?” Dan asks, taking in Kate completely—the boots, the pantsuit, the full-face of makeup.

“Work,” Kate says, checking the latest e-mail on her BlackBerry. It was Matt, thirty minutes ago. One sentence. _Get in, CI’s in the shitter in Juárez._

Dan looks over to the alarm clock. “Jesus,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face, “it’s six in the morning, Kate. Get back in bed.”

“Can’t,” Kate answers, picking Dan’s jeans and boxers up off the floor and tossing them on the mattress. She doesn’t know where his shirt or shoes are. “I’ve called you a taxi, it’s outside. If you could hurry, I’d appreciate it. I really need to get going.”

 

\--

 

Alejandro sits in an armchair, legs crossed, holding a hard-cover book, silent. Kate watches, intent. There’s still a surreal quality to it, observing Alejandro these past twenty-four hours. You wouldn’t know from the way in which he helps Kate with her bandages that he’s just as competent at killing. You wouldn’t know from the slump of his shoulders, or the way in which he turns the pages of his book, that he can find it in himself to sneak into a young woman’s apartment and hold the cold barrel of a handgun under her chin while she cries.

“Who’s Matt?” Kate asks, lounging on the couch, a blanket around her shoulders and pillows all around her, the remote to the television in her hand. There’s a soap opera playing in the background, forgotten.

“Sorry?” Alejandro looks up from his book, uncomprehending.

“Who’s Matt to you,” Kate clarifies.

Alejandro shrugs, licks his thumb, and turns a page. “Boss. Partner. Friend.”

“How long have you known him?” Kate presses.

“Eight years,” Alejandro answers.

Kate tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders, sinking into the pillows, satisfied. “That explains it,” she says.

“What?” Alejandro closes his book, defeated. He’s not getting out of this conversation.

“Why his word carries so much weight, with you.” Kate smiles, knowing, and Alejandro just stares at her blankly as if she’s solved some mystery she was never supposed to unravel.

 _My bird dog over there, Alejandro._ That’s what Matt had said against the backdrop of a clear blue Arizona skyline—Alejandro standing, removed and inscrutable, near the wing of the private plane at Luke Air Force Base. Watch Kate, done. Get Kate to sign the affidavit, done. Now, Alejandro’s the only thing standing between Kate and a bullet if anyone walks through that front door. Damn strange, how life works. Especially with someone like Matt pulling the strings.

 

\--

 

Alejandro’s waiting for her when she gets to Matt’s office, standing outside the door, a thermos of coffee in hand. Kate’s never been more grateful to see him than she is now. “Tell it to me straight,” she says. Possibility Number One, Gloria’s dead. Possibility Number Two, Gloria’s been taken, which is just as good as dead. Possibility Number Three, Gloria and the kids are dead. Kate tries to focus beyond the ringing in her ears. Please, just let the kids be okay. Kate can fix this as long as the kids are okay.

Alejandro hands her the coffee. “You need it more than me.”  

“Thanks.” Kate takes a sip. It’s so strong it tastes like oil, but that’s how Alejandro always brews his coffee.

“To answer your question,” Alejandro says, “it’s bad. But, it’s not the worst case scenario. Your CI’s really lucky.”

Kate lets out a relieved breath, and leans her head on Alejandro’s shoulder for a moment. “Thank God,” she says.

“Get your fucking asses in here,” Matt calls from the other side of the door. “I don’t have all day and we’ve got to go off and be heroes.”

 

\--

 

Love goes sour, sometimes. It turns, becomes something else. Like a favorite pair of shoes gathering too much muck under the soles, or ripe fruit left in a paper bag too long. Gloria Rodriguez was fifteen when she met her husband. Fifteen when she met the boy who would eventually become a man, and that man would eventually become the most trusted in-house doctor for the Sonora cartel.

Sonora. Alarcón’s life-blood, still pumping after the host was dismantled; post-mortem muscle tremors in the form of gun runners and low-level drug dealers that the CIA want Kate to obliterate. That’s the actual word in the typed report, _obliterate._ Such unadorned and blunt language. In other words: by any means necessary, take care of it.

Hector Rodriguez still treats these men, his comrades, his brothers. He’s still being paid by whoever is cashing the checks, so his patient roster thrives and kicks despite Alejandro having split Alarcón’s head in half with a bullet to join his chicken mole poblano on a porcelain dinner-plate.

Kate hears of Gloria. Kate studies up on Gloria. Kate meets Gloria, and Gloria wants out. “I loved him once,” Gloria says. “I truly did.”

Kate believes her.

 

\--

 

“I don’t need you here anymore,” Kate says. It’s been a week. A week of sharing this house, her new house, with Alejandro.

“I can stay,” Alejandro says, toweling dry his wet hair, leaning against the wall of Kate’s bedroom. He’s just gotten out of the shower.

Kate sits on the edge of her bed, unable to come to grips with this strange intimacy that the two of them have conjured up in little to no time at all. There are three other bathrooms in the house, besides the one adjacent to the master bedroom. Alejandro has picked this one to shower in over the past several days, and neither him nor Kate have commented on it. She needs Alejandro to leave. She needs to stand on her own two feet. Kate shakes her head and Alejandro nods, understanding. “If you’re sure, I’ll tell Matt.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Kate says, and Alejandro throws on a t-shirt, leaving the bedroom to make them both dinner. Right now, he’s the closest thing Kate has to a friend.

 

\--

 

Joshua’s six, and completely engrossed in Saturday morning cartoons. He’s sitting with his face only two-inches away from the television in the motel. Road-Runner lets out an obnoxious and triumphant, _BEEP-BEEP._ With Coyote left in the dust, Joshua erupts into a fit of giggles. Sarah’s three, and not as easily entertained. She sits on the twin-bed, rubbing at her puffy eyes that are swollen from crying. She just wants her Raggedy-Ann doll.

Kate’s counting bills, while Gloria counts change. They both sit at a tiny fold-out table that was originally by the window. That window is boarded up now, and that tiny fold-out table is situated by the closet’s sliding door. Kate hasn’t slept for twenty-seven hours. Gloria hasn’t slept for thirty-six. They need to get moving, and soon.

“Maybe I was wrong to leave,” Gloria whispers to Kate. “Hector wouldn’t hurt the kids. Maybe me, but not the kids. He just wouldn’t.”

Kate scratches at her head. The blonde wig she’s been wearing since she got over the border is as uncomfortable as a pair of skin-tight pantyhose. “He saw a list you made for me of the names of all his patients and their phone numbers,” Kate whispers back. “I don’t think you know what he’s capable of.” The words are curt and cruel; but Kate needs to be the voice of reason, here. “The Chevy’s outside. We’ll leave in an hour.”

Gloria begins to place the bills and change in a Ziploc bag. She looks over at her children, and then over at Kate. “I trust you,” she says.

 

\--

 

Kate’s macaroni and cheese dinner bubbles over in the microwave. She saves it at the last minute, swearing. She eats on the couch, watching a romantic comedy on Lifetime. Kate licks at the spoon, finishing off the last of her food, just as the male lead gets on one knee and proposes to his tearful girlfriend.

The house is quiet, with Alejandro gone.

Kate checks the locks after throwing out the trash, and then goes upstairs to put on pajamas and wash her face. Kate doesn’t sleep for most of the night. Instead, she takes out the SIG Pro Alejandro left her, sits in a wingback chair in front of her bedroom door, and waits. For anything. For nothing. She does this for five weeks.

 

\--

 

Chance is a fickle thing.

Kate takes Sarah and Joshua to use the restroom one last time. Sarah’s in her arms and Joshua’s holding Kate’s hand when she leads them back out to the car. Gloria puts the keys in the ignition, and Kate doesn’t even have time to register the explosion until she’s on her back, bruised and singed and bleeding. “Gloria!” She shouts. “Sarah! Joshua!”

Kate can’t see much through the smoke. She wonders if her luck is finally up, or if she’ll always be condemned to be the one who lives while others die.

 

\--

 

It’s the hardest thing to do, to tell someone you love ‘no.’ To say—no, I’m not listening to you. To say—no, this isn’t about you. Alejandro never asks for anything. He’s asking now, and Kate can’t give him what he wants. 

“I don’t like it,” Alejandro says. He’s standing inches away from Kate, so that they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. Kate can smell his cologne just as clearly as she can hear the break in his voice, the crack in the vowels.

Kate folds a sweater and a pair of jeans, placing them between a matted blonde wig and the SIG Pro Alejandro gave her two years ago, in her duffle bag. “You don’t have to like it,” she says. The words feel like gravel around her teeth.

“They can send someone else,” Alejandro bites out, non-negotiable. Problem is, his argument doesn’t hold water and he knows it. If Alejandro was in Kate’s shoes, it wouldn’t matter what she said. If she begged or cried, he’d go anyway. Give Alejandro an objective, he’ll stick with it until the end. No matter the consequences, to himself or others. Kate’s very much the same way. That sense of recognition; it’s one of the reasons they’re so close in the first place.

Kate takes in a deep breath, and Alejandro reaches for her hand. He’s pulling out all the stops, not going down without a fight. “Gloria’s my informant,” Kate says, and squeezes Alejandro’s fingers. Trying to ground him, reassure him. “I brought her in. She’s my responsibility and so are those kids.” Surely you can understand that, is what she doesn’t say. What if it was Sofia? What if it was your little girl?

Alejandro relents at the mention of the kids, pulls back. Kate can pinpoint the exact moment his walls go back up, his face blank and posture rigid. “Hey,” she reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I’ll see you soon.”

It takes Alejandro a moment to reciprocate. But when he does, he holds Kate tightly. Holds Kate for all she’s worth.

 

\--

 

Gloria’s dead, incinerated in the shell of a burning Chevrolet Silverado. CPS places Joshua and Sarah in foster care in the states, while Kate finds herself at Brooke Army Medical Center. She’s diagnosed with a concussion, and gets eighteen stitches in her left arm to join the puckered and pale scars on her rib and shoulder. There are over forty shards of glass and other detritus taken from Kate’s skin with pliers.

She gets a phone call from Matt. Always phone calls from Matt when she hits rock-bottom, wrapped in a hospital gown. He tells her he’s grateful she’s still breathing and that there’s an investigation pending. “We have no idea how they knew, how that damn car got rigged. Shit, one sec…” Kate hears Matt call Allison in from the backyard, telling her she needs to do her homework. “Sorry about that. Rest up. Steve’s planning a ‘Welcome Home’ banner and everything.”

“You don’t need to be an ass and ruin the surprise,” Kate mutters around a mouthful of green Jell-O.

“Just trying to cheer you up,” Matt says, and disconnects the call.

The phone rings again at the end of the week, right before Kate’s discharged. It’s Alejandro. Best for last. It’s a cliché, but it’s apt. “I need to see you,” he says; and Kate swallows down a thousand saccharine sentiments that she’s afraid would only earn her a laugh on the other end of the line.

 

\--

 

“It’s good to care,” Reggie says, “but you can’t get attached. There’s a difference.”

Kate closes her eyes and counts to ten. That’s how many hostages they lost, today. Ten. Ten innocents. Kate breathes in, exhales. She opens her eyes.

“There,” Reggie says. He rubs Kate’s knee, a show of solidarity. Kate’s only known this self-proclaimed cowboy for three days, and she likes him already.

Partners, then.

 

\--

 

Kate knows better than this. She knows better than to fall apart, just as she knows Alejandro’s simply stating facts when he says—“You did good work. All those names and numbers Gloria gave you, it’s a goldmine.”

Except, the facts don’t change the outcome. The facts don’t fix Kate’s failure. “But, she’s dead Alejandro.” Kate can’t stop crying. This is fucking pathetic. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the throbbing pain in her joints, but Kate’s usually able to keep a tighter lid on her emotions. “She’s dead and those kids are left without a mother. I don’t feel like I did good work, I feel like I failed. I failed her.”

Kate’s legs are starting to cramp up, sprawled at an awkward angle on the kitchen floor. Alejandro’s back is against one of the cabinets, his arms around Kate, a steady support. “You did good work,” Alejandro murmurs into her ear, his nose against her cheek. He presses a kiss to her jaw. “You did good work,” he repeats. As if he says it enough times, Kate will believe it.

“I thought…” Kate nearly stops herself. She shouldn’t say this, shouldn’t admit to this. She shouldn’t.

“What?” Alejandro’s wiping the tears from her face, the tears that just keep falling, and Kate turns her head, the slightest inch, so she can look him in the eye.

“I thought of you when I fell back, when I was on the ground. That was my first thought.” The words are out of her mouth and Kate can’t take them back, even though she desperately wants to. Alejandro’s fingers still on her face. He doesn’t say anything. Kate swears she can almost measure the cadence of his breathing in the silence; thinks she can feel his pulse quicken through his skin, from where his body is lined up against hers. Alejandro finally moves, and kisses her cheek. Then Kate’s chin, her forehead, the shell of her ear. Feather-light kisses, meant to be a comfort. Kate doesn’t know why it feels like they’re leading to something else.

Her BlackBerry rings, vibrates on the counter above them, and the moment is lost. “I’ll get it,” Alejandro says, and stands up, leaving Kate on the floor. “Yes?” Alejandro asks. “Yes, this is Kate Macer’s phone. It’s Alejandro Gillick. Yes, yes I’ll tell her.” Alejandro puts his hand over the receiver and looks down at Kate. “They want to know if you’re able to come in tomorrow,” he says. “Something has happened in Bogotá. They’re sending the files to your e-mail.”

Kate coughs, trying to clear her throat. She nods, wiping the rest of the tears away from her face. “I can,” she says. “I’ll just need to take a couple more muscle-relaxants. I’ll be good to go.”

“She’ll be in tomorrow. Sure. I’ll make some calls.” Alejandro makes a non-committal grunt and hangs up, placing Kate’s BlackBerry back on the counter. “I need to start reaching out to some contacts of mine,” he says. “Is it alright if I stay? I can get my work done down here, sleep on the couch.” I want to stay. Don’t make me leave. I don’t want to leave you alone.

“Yeah,” Kate says. Alejandro’s already become removed, cold—how he usually is when he’s out in the field. They’re not going to discuss what just happened, are they? Kate gets up and grabs her BlackBerry. “I’m going to go upstairs and check up on those files,” she says, leaving Alejandro standing in the kitchen.

The following morning, Alejandro’s already gone. Kate doesn’t see him until the de-brief on Nathaniel Williams, and they don’t talk about it. Any of it.

 

\--

 

“You know who I am?” Kate asks.

Gloria nods, her hands worrying at the crucifix around her neck. Her mascara is running a little, although Gloria’s trying her best not to cry. Her foot taps against the restaurant floor, under the table. The black beans and rice in front of her went cold a long time ago.

“I’m someone who knows what they’re doing,” Kate says. “I have friends in high places. I’m familiar with situations like yours. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep your children safe. You’re going to save lives, Gloria. Remember, you’re doing this for them. For your kids.”

“For my babies,” Gloria says, and the words seem to give her strength. Her foot goes still. She lets go of her crucifix, reaching for the fork in front of her instead. She takes a bite of rice. Never underestimate a mother’s resolve. 

“For your babies,” Kate echoes. She smiles, encouraging.

 

\--

 

Open-mouthed kisses are placed against her scars, each and every one, not an inch or injury forgotten. Kate shivers, her bare skin against the soft leather of the couch. She never thought she’d have this—Alejandro above her, Alejandro filling her. He moves his mouth from Kate’s scars to kiss her instead, tongue coaxing open the seam of her lips, and Kate doesn’t know how she’s lived without knowing this, without knowing them like this. Alejandro pulls back, grabs a fistful of her hair, thrusts forward, eyes open and staring at Kate, hardly blinking, as if he’s afraid he’ll miss a single reaction.

“Love you,” Kate says, pants. “Love you.”

Alejandro makes a noise deep in his throat at that, at those words, and it sounds like release. Relief. Happiness, even. He buries his face in the crook of Kate’s neck, his beard rough against her skin, and Kate looses herself to it.

Everything is going to be alright now, she thinks. Everything is going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, this chapter gave me so much trouble. If anyone has time to drop a note, I'd appreciate it. And, a huge thank you to everyone who dropped one on the last chapter. All of them had me with a big, dopey smile on my face. Also, if anyone's interested, the quote at the beginning is from Patricia Highsmith's _The Price of Salt,_ which is the basis for Todd Hayne's new film _Carol._ And, while all the quotes posted as prefaces to these chapters are from novels I love very much, this one holds a very special place in my heart. One of the best period romances (50's era) you'll ever read, if you're in the mood for that kind of thing. One last thing—there might be an extra chapter tacked on to this, as I was writing the fourth chapter and I felt it was getting a bit too dense.


	4. unafraid to sleep, unafraid to wake

 

 

“There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lovers enter the habits of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in a new light. This is done with nervous or tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire.”

 —MICHAEL ONDAATJE, _The English Patient_

 

 

Impressions; a green silk dress with flowers and leaves scattered all over it. A barrette gathering up soft brown hair at the crown of a tiny oval head. The hair goes down, and down some more, until it stops at a cinched waist. There’s a black patent-leather belt buckled there, coordinating with the black patent-leather saddle shoes and white ankle socks on the little girl’s feet. She has amber eyes and a smile indicating a wisdom far beyond her years. Which is saying something, since the subject of the photograph is only four. Kate knows this, because it’s noted on the back. _Sofia, 4 th Birthday. 2005._

 

\--

 

There’s a beauty to Juárez’s violence at night. The moon leaves nothing to the imagination. Purple, blue, and black shift together to highlight red smoke left from flare-guns and blasts; blasts in corporate buildings, in market squares, in houses. Explosions are followed by a crunch, an inevitable fall—the crumbling of brick and decimation of cement and stucco. Ash and the sound of dogs barking. Children crying for their mothers. The rat-tat-tat of gunfire where Kate and Alejandro are seeking shelter in a broken-down Impala.

Kate’s head in cushioned against Alejandro’s chest, both of them lying down in the backseat. Bodies straight, heads tucked in, still. Careful not to be seen by any passerby, friend or foe. In Juárez though, it’s mostly foe. “Extraction should be coming in the morning, if Matt really shakes down the tree,” Alejandro says.

“Bureaucracy at its finest,” Kate mutters into a starched linen shirt. She can tell Alejandro’s smiling, although her eyes are scrunched shut. She curls closer, where she feels safest, in his arms.

“We should stay here until then,” Alejandro says, his hold on Kate tightening minutely. Small gestures of reassurance. We’re in this together, and I won’t leave you.

“Hey, I’m not going to argue with you.” Kate laughs, anxiety and fear seeking an outlet. Her first time back in Mexico, back across that dreaded border, and she’s hiding from bandits, sleep-weary and dehydrated.

“If that’s your idea of a joke,” Alejandro comments, voice light, “you really need to work on your delivery.”

Kate jabs a finger at his chest playfully. “Like you know how to tell a joke.”

 

\--

 

Kate’s arms are pinned at her sides. Her back against the mattress, arching. Kate doesn’t think she even recognizes her own voice, the sounds coming out every time Alejandro so much as moves the slightest inch. There are so many interludes, so many motions: his mouth against her breastbone, his thumb tracing the most prominent vein on the inside of her wrist, his lips against hers. His forehead bowing, touching Kate’s own, where worry-lines are permanently etched, another scar.

There’s such a difference, and such a high, in the feeling of being held down willingly.

“Come on,” Alejandro gasps, and Kate will never get tired of this, of seeing him fall apart and wanting her to do the same. “Come on.” And he reaches between Kate’s legs, right near where he’s pumping into her. Unrelenting, not stopping. Kate can’t help it, can’t hold out anymore, and she comes from the double stimulation. As soon as the room stops tilting on its axis, as soon as Kate catches her breath, she rolls them over, wanting to wipe that triumphant look off Alejandro’s face. Well, more smug than triumphant. She rides him; his hands on her hips, kneading the flesh, ten white indents. And he comes too, sooner rather than later, whole body stuttering in Kate’s hold.

“You were angry with me,” Alejandro says after, after rounds two and three.

Kate makes a noise of assent, reaching out to feel that small space between both of Alejandro’s eyebrows with her thumb. Every bit of him fascinates her now, Kate hyperaware and grateful she finally has this. Him in her bed, bare and honest. “I said what I did that night I got back from Texas…” Kate pauses. She doesn’t know how to put any of it into words, although she tries. “And you just left,” she finishes. “We never talked about it, for nearly a month.”

“It’s been a long time,” Alejandro says, body lined up alongside Kate’s. He kisses her shoulder. I was scared, he doesn’t say. I ran, he omits—although it’s an obvious fact.

Kate moves and kisses him, not wanting to be apart in any way for another instant. Her arms go around to encircle him again. “There’s no reason to be afraid,” she murmurs.

 

\--

 

It’s an accident, Kate’s fingers brushing up against the pocket of Alejandro’s pants. A small piece of paper is poking out of the edge. “What’s that?” Kate asks, tongue thick with exhaustion. She’s already drifting off, trying to stay awake and aware. It’s been six hours since Alejandro and her found this alley, this Impala in the dark.

“Photograph,” Alejandro says, and reaches to pull the folded four-by-six square out. Kate blinks, opening her eyes to the image of a beaming preschooler, and she knows immediately that she’s looking at Alejandro’s daughter.

Kate swallows, not knowing what to say when confronted with someone else’s baggage staring right back at her. Plump olive skin and chubby cheeks and black patent-leather saddle shoes stuck forever at a single point in time. “What was her name?” Kate asks, and she almost wants to take the words back. This isn’t her place.

“Sofia,” Alejandro says, name rolling off his tongue despite sounding rusty with disuse. “It was her fourth birthday, my wife got her that dress the morning before.” Kate wonders why Alejandro’s telling her this, any of this. They might be friends, they might be close, they might go to Matt and Carol’s and have barbeques on their lawn-deck, but Alejandro never mentions his past, his family. Kate supposes he’s only doing it right now for the mere practicality of keeping her awake and talking.

“She looks happy,” Kate says, and Alejandro mutters something indistinct under his breath.

“She loved that dress,” he says. “She’d been eyeing it for awhile, when we went on trips to the mall. We couldn’t afford it at the time, though. We had to save up for several months. Her birthday seemed as good a time as any to give it to her.”

Kate reaches for Alejandro’s free hand, the hand that’s not holding the photograph, and twines her fingers with his. He squeezes back, and their knuckles go white together.

 

\--

 

 _It’s been a long time,_ Alejandro said the night before.

Kate knows it has; that Alejandro never expected to have something like this or ever even actively sought it out, although it’s been ten years. Ten years since Alejandro was finding grisly tableaus of severed body parts on street corners and thinking he could fix it with a briefcase and court orders. Ten years since he had a wife of twenty-five on his arm and a little girl of four perched on his knee.

Alejandro walks out of Kate’s front door, taste still insistent and fresh in her mouth, and she sees a white indentation where his gold wedding band used to be, on the fourth finger of his left hand.  

Kate knows the shape and feel of it weighs heavy wherever Alejandro’s keeping it now.

 

\--

 

The inside of the dance hall feels like an ice-box. Kate buttons up her cardigan over the plain black A-line dress she’s wearing, the holly and ivy pin fastened to the wool knit shinning under the multi-colored Christmas lights. Office parties back when she was at the FBI were never really Kate’s thing; she always felt out of place. Just like now.

Some R&B song is playing in the background, the singer crooning to the chords on the piano. Kate stands at the edge of the hall, content to watch multiple couples sway forward and back on the polished floor. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look depressed.” Kate turns her head to see Alejandro coming up to her, a glass of egg-nog in hand and a Santa Claus pin tacked onto his suit collar.

“Matt got to you too, I see.” Kate gestures to the pin, a stupid wide grin forming on her face.

“He ambushed me,” Alejandro says, “all this talk of the Christmas spirit.” He stands right next to Kate, the tips of his dress shoes touching the tapered points of her heels, and hands her the egg-nog.

“What are you giving me this for?” Kate asks, taking the glass, eying it dubiously.

“I put a shot of whiskey in it,” Alejandro says with a wink.

“You’re a genius,” Kate says, and takes a sip. The spiced milk mixed with the heady taste of alcohol goes smoothly down her throat.

Alejandro holds out his hand. “Come on and dance with me.”

Kate nearly chokes on the egg-nog. “I thought the whole point of this was to get drunk and decidingly not participate in any holiday festivities.”

Alejandro shrugs, taking the glass from Kate and placing it on the lid of a nearby trash-can. “It will make the time go faster,” he says, and leads Kate out to where the crowd is. They turn into each other, face to face. Alejandro places his hands at the small of Kate’s back, cupping her waist, and she shuffles closer. Her arms wrap around his neck, feet moving left and then right. It’s been a year since Arizona, since Reggie, and Kate’s beginning to think starting over might have not been a mistake. She’s happy, in moments like these. Content.

 

\--

 

Alejandro’s the man who sits in the farthest corner of any given room. In a corner where no one even bothers to look. He’s the one who commands attention, but is skilled enough not to attract unwanted notice. He’s the one who fires on the long-gun, who carries the silencer, who wears the gear and boots and headpiece in his ear; the one who gets sent out to do the things men in suits in seats of power don’t have the guts or the time to do. Living, loving, and sharing space with someone like that—it’s difficult. Not that Kate ever thought it would be easy.

Alejandro’s absent more than he is present, gone to Colombia or Mexico or some other foreign country while Kate interrogates detainees and shuffles through files in the states. He’s on the phone with her more often than he’s at home, voice heavy with things unsaid. And while Kate can glean specifics from preliminary reports and classified documents, it’s still not the same as hearing it directly from Alejandro’s mouth.

Kate wonders if it would make it any better, if Alejandro were completely transparent and upfront. If it would make the body count easier to swallow. Kate has a strong stomach, and an iron will to do what needs to be done in order for civilians to sleep better at night and for innocents to thrive; ignorant as to what their government actually sanctions and carries out. It’s not like she’s going to be repulsed, although she knows that’s something Alejandro fears. It’s not like she’s going to leave him.

“What do you want me to do, Kate?” Alejandro asks, once. “They’re barbarians.” They take everything. Wipe the grime away, purge them. Clean out the belly of the beast. Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.

 

\--

 

Kate can still feel the congratulatory smacks on her back.  The well-wishes of _thanks_ and _good work_ still ring in her ears. Those names and numbers Gloria gave her literally spell p-r-o-m-o-t-i-o-n.

Alejandro’s at the bar with Matt, sitting on a high-top stool, legs so long and sturdy his feet are planted firmly on the floor. Him and Matt clink together frosted glasses of beer, and Kate watches as Alejandro takes a drink; throat bobbing, eyes glinting, his mouth glistening liquid when he puts his glass back down on the countertop. “To success,” she hears them say. “To big breaks and small ones.”

Matt catches sight of her from across the room and gestures to Kate to come join them. Alejandro cocks his head, beckoning too. What do you think you’re doing? What are you doing all the way over there? Kate smiles deprecatingly, the ground going out from underneath her and all she wants to do is hide. She shakes her head no, catches sight of a footballer type at the pool table by the jukebox and points. Matt gives her a thumbs-up, mouths “dirty player.” Alejandro looks down, taking another sip of his beer. He really doesn’t seem to be affected at all—at Kate moving in the direction of that pool table—and why should he be? Kate just happens to be in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. Alejandro still wears a gold wedding band on the fourth finger of his left hand.

The footballer type looks up at Kate as he holds a cue stick steady. He grins, ego-stuffed and predatory. He really doesn’t know what he’s getting into. “Dan,” he tells her outside the bar, his hand up under her shirt and cupping her breast. “My name is Dan.”

 

\--

 

“She adores you,” Carol says. There’s the sound of sprinklers on the grass, horns honking, and Noah playing basketball with Matt outside. Kate can’t help the warm feeling that swells in her chest when Jess, all of three months old, reaches out with tiny fingers to clasp her thumb. Jess has a tight hold, so strong for such a small baby, and Kate leans down to kiss the crown of the head coddled in the pink blanket. Soft, fine hairs and the smell of Johnson & Johnson powder in her arms. It’s a good day.

Carol walks over to the kitchen table. She sits, placing a mug of black tea in front of Kate; a Lipton-tea bag string and tag hanging limply over the side. Carol’s all easy grace and red curls and freckles dotting her skin, cupping her own mug in both hands. Kate’s never failed to recognize how gorgeous Matt’s wife is. She used to tease him about it, even. Childish, office-gossip style: “Someone like _that_ willingly walked down the aisle with someone like you?” And then Matt would give her the finger and Kate would laugh and laugh.

“You doing alright?” Carol asks. “It’s the fifth time this month Alejandro’s been out of town, and he only just moved in with you a little while ago.”

“Fine,” Kate says. “I’m used to it by now. Besides, I’ve got this beautiful angel here to keep me company.” Jess gurgles as if on cue, staring up at Kate with wide eyes.

“Can I admit something to you?” Carol asks, looking flushed and a little shy.

“Anything,” Kate says.

“I was… am… a little jealous.” Carol looks down at her lap. Kate’s never seen her like this, unsure and self-conscious. “What you and Alejandro have, I can’t help but feel that it’s easier being in the same field. Doing the same job. Matt and I have been together since we were fifteen, and I used to think I knew him better than he knew himself. And then Iraq happened, and I realized I didn’t know him completely. And the work he’s doing now in intelligence… I can’t understand what he goes through day to day, not really. Not just because he can’t tell me everything, but because I don’t experience it.”

Kate shakes her head. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” she says. “Matt worships the ground you walk on. That trumps anything and everything else.” She doesn’t correct Carol. Doesn’t say that, in actual fact, their situations are very similar. Kate will never be able to fully comprehend what Alejandro does, the toll it takes on someone’s psyche. No matter how much they love each other, there’s a divide between them that Kate will never, in all her power, be able to breach.

 

\--

 

It’s medieval. Animalistic. The .JPG and .PDF images Kate’s examined from the comfort of her desk are a joke. A still image is a mediator for the harsh reality, sparing the viewer the actual experience. The smell of decomposing flesh, of chemicals. The flies and maggots hungry and swarming at the scene. Kate’s never been this close, ten feet away from the carcass of what used to be a woman—head and breasts cut off, fingers gone, split through the middle and flayed. Hair eroded with acid. Teeth removed. Violated; physically and sexually and in all the ways a human being should never treat another. The bodies unearthed behind the walls in Chandler, the Jane and John Doe’s in the plaster, have nothing on this. Child’s play. A warm-up round.

Alejandro’s at the door to the warehouse. The converted meat-market, the kill-house. Foot at the threshold, about to step in. Kate doesn’t know why she reacts the way she does. Call it instinct. An automatic response to protect her best friend. “We don’t need you here,” she says, coming up to Alejandro, slim body doing its damned best to block the gaping wide entrance, “you don’t need to be here.”

“Kate,” Alejandro says. Just her name. Resolved, steady. I have a job to do, let me through. And, Kate knows she’s lost. She steps aside. Alejandro walks in, lace-up suede Cole Haan’s against the bloody linoleum, features schooled expressionless.

They go back to the hotel after, double-beds side by side. Alejandro stays with Kate when it’s possible, when they’re out on assignments together. Kate thinks her past self would have felt coddled, insulted by the assumption of protection. Now though, she’s grateful. “Are you alright,” she asks, and it’s not really a question. She knows he’s not. Alejandro has a husband’s barely contained rage and grief bottled up inside, threatening to spill over. But it’s Alejandro, so of course none of it does.

“You never think it will happen to you,” he says. “You think it’s just something that happens to others. That it can’t touch you, or the people you love. I told her we would be fine. I left her in the living room, I got in the car, I… suficiente. Jesús, Kate. Suficiente.” Alejandro closes his eyes. Inhales, exhales. His shoulders shake. Kate wants to go to him, wants to hold him, but she’s afraid that would be a mistake. Alejandro gets up, eyes glassy but no tears falling yet, to use the small sink in the corner of the room. He splashes water onto his face, towels the skin dry. He turns off the faucet and looks over at Kate, good as new. Like he’s flipped a switch. To anyone else, it would be disconcerting. Disturbing. But, Kate knows Alejandro. It’s just what he does. It’s how he deals.

 

\--

 

Alejandro has enemies. Killing many people over the span of many years tends to make them multiply. So, it’s not entirely a surprise when the threats start to pop up. Kate knew what she was getting into with this relationship, with him.

The first time it happens, Kate’s setting the dining room table for Thanksgiving dinner; arranging the place settings to a tee—for her, Alejandro, Matt, and Carol. The coffee table has been converted into a kids’ table for Allison and Noah. Carol’s bringing a highchair for Jess. Nat King Cole is playing on the radio, Christmas tunes in November already, when the phone rings.

Kate runs to the kitchen to pick it up. “Hello?” She asks. No one answers. There’s just the sound of static, a man’s breathing in the background. Classic intimidation tactic; expected, but Kate still feels her throat close up and her stomach bottom-out. She wonders how whoever the fuck it is got her and Alejandro’s home phone number. Kate hangs up, and reaches into the pocket of her jeans with shaking hands for her BlackBerry.

Alejandro answers after the second ring. “I’m already driving back, so if you forgot something else on the list you gave me you’re out of luck. I’ve got the eggs and cornstarch, we’ll be fine. I refuse to go back to the grocery store on principal. Sending me there four times already is my limit.”

“Alejandro…” Kate says. Calm, she reminds herself. Remain calm. “You really need to get home. I’m fine, but you really need to get home.”

 

\--

 

The nightmare almost pulls her in, but Alejandro’s there to pull her out.

“You’re alright,” he says, “you’re alright.” Hands cupping her cheeks, gentle, so gentle for someone who held a gun to her not so long ago. Kate looks up at Alejandro’s face in the darkness. He must have fallen asleep in the wingback chair by her bed. Why are you doing this, Kate wants to ask. Alejandro’s there to protect her, to help her with the transition under Matt’s orders; not help her through a catatonic state in the shower, or bandage up her torn stitches, or put her to bed like she’s a helpless child.

Alejandro kneels on the floor, coaches Kate on how to take deep and calming breaths. He holds her hand. Because I know what it’s like, Kate imagines he would say. I know what it’s like to loose someone.

 

\--

 

The phone call doesn’t materialize into anything more. Threats like those hardly ever do. They’re more warnings than anything else. We know who you love. We know where you live. We’re watching.

 

\--

 

The suit gives her body, the straight up and down pole of a thing, shape. Kate traces the navy pinstripes with the palms of her hands, smoothing out any wrinkles. The pearl earrings she wears compliment the bone-white color of the silk blouse tucked into her trousers. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looks polished. Sophisticated. Intimidating. Leaving the ladies’ restroom, Kate’s heels clack against the tile; sounding like light rain against a shingled roof.

Alejandro, standing there with an I.D. and security pass in hand, looks at her like he doesn’t recognize her. Which Kate can’t help but find funny, since he knows her better than anyone else. They’ve only known each other for the span of thirty days—between Arizona, Mexico, and now Virginia—but Alejandro knows her better than anyone else.

“Should we go in?” Kate asks.

“Yes,” Alejandro says, key-fob making a welcoming beep when swiped against the rectangular sensor on the wall, and opens the door for her. Kate walks through, day one about to begin. Industrial metal and sleek computer monitors great her, individual desks lined up in rows and stacked to the brim with manila folders and paperwork. Her battlefield. The weapons, primed and at the ready.

Matt’s there, bright eyed and bushy tailed, standing at the edge of what Kate can only assume is her new work-station. “Revving to go?” He asks, gum in his mouth and hands on his hips.

“Absolutely,” Kate says, and she means it.

 

\--

 

The garage opens, closes. Kate’s already down the stairs in an instant, almost tripping over her own feet. The Cadillac’s motor runs, sputters, turns off. Kate can hear Alejandro getting his luggage out of the trunk as she stands by the door. Patience run threadbare, mouth dry. She’s missed him. Practice doesn’t make perfect when it comes to waiting.

There’s the footfall of Alejandro’s shoes, the jangling of keys in his hand, and the door to the small landing leading to the garage opens. It’s cramped, between the both of them and the backpack and overnight bag Alejandro carries. But, he’s there. He’s there, safe and whole, completely unharmed except in all the ways no one can see. And Kate leans into him, puts her arms around him, squeezing tightly. “Hi,” she says.

Alejandro drops his bags, presses a kiss to her neck. He makes a low sound against her skin, gripping her waist. His mouth moves down to rest at her collarbone, hot and wet. He pushes her back and Kate nearly stumbles, legs weak and shaking. “Alejandro, sweetheart what are you…” She can’t breathe, can’t think. He’s crowding her against the wall—arms bracketing her face, elbows resting on the slopes of her shoulders, his hands in her hair. He kisses her, and her mouth opens for him easily. Rote, immediate.

Kate can feel the beat of Alejandro’s heart where his chest is pressed up against hers, not an inch of space between them. He lifts up the hem of Kate’s t-shirt, fingers brushing against her abdomen, and takes it off. Eyes bright, sure and full with intent, he works his way down; lips against Kate’s breasts through the thin barrier of her lace bra, then her ribs, her hipbones. He’s on his knees in front of her, unbuttoning her jeans and pulling them down by the pockets. Kate moans, gripping at Alejandro’s shoulders, steadying herself.

He kisses her between her legs, underwear still on, as if he was pressing kisses to her mouth. Kate fists a hand in his hair, pulls. Alejandro groans beneath her, wanting. He drags her underwear down. Beard chaffing the inside of her bare thighs, denim and cotton around her ankles, he licks and sucks her, doesn’t let up until Kate comes; back sliding down the wall, knees trembling. “Let me,” Kate says, “let me…”

Alejandro’s leaning back on his heels, and Kate pulls him up. She kisses him, an open clash of teeth, and tastes herself. He’s hard, rocking against her, panting into her mouth. Kate rolls under him, spurring him on, trapped between Alejandro’s body and the wall, and he lets out a shout, slumps forward, spent. They’re both fucked-out wrecks, breaths loud and short in the confined alcove, and Kate can’t help laughing. Alejandro pulls back, looks at her, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. “Marry me,” he says.

 

\--

 

Tremors wrack his hand, the man’s hand in the seat adjacent to hers. He fell asleep awhile back, near the start of the flight; magazine and Ray-Ban’s on the tray table in front of him, ivory suit rucking up his thighs and his head resting on his chest. His breathing halts, then comes in fast intervals. Alejandro, that’s what Matt had said his name was. Kate wonders if she should wake him, if it would even be appropriate. They only just met. And then he jumps, wakes, looks so startled and afraid that Kate doesn’t know what to do.

“Are you okay?” She asks, feeling off-kilter and out of her element. She’s not good at this, providing comfort. Especially to a stranger who doesn’t seem poised to accept it.

“Yeah,” the man, Alejandro, says. “I’m fine.”

 

\--

 

There are things they don’t talk about, that they have a silent pact never to mention to each other.

They don’t talk about having kids. They know it can be a reality, that it’s feasible. Matt juggles both his family life and his life at the agency like a master. But, it’s not a possibility for Alejandro. Sofia’s a ghost that he’s never, and will never, be able to let go of.

They don’t talk about what happened the night of the tunnels, either. Kate’s read the report. It used to make her sick, thinking Alejandro was capable of what that impersonal black and white document said he was. Now, when she catches sight of that creased—folded and unfolded over the course of a decade—photograph with the little girl in the green silk dress, tucked away at the bottom of Alejandro’s sock drawer, Kate feels righteous indignation fill her stomach. She’s not proud of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter. The positive feedback for this has really helped give me that extra push to write, especially since I've never even attempted something of this length before. And just a little disclaimer: there might be a lag in updates coming up. But, that's only because the next chapter _is_ the penultimate one, and there are going to be some scenes in there that I've had in my head since the beginning of this that I just really want to get right. So if you don't see a new installment in a couple weeks, it's only because I'm perfecting it and being my OCD type self. lol


	5. savages

 

 

“Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.”

 —EDNA O’BRIEN, _In the Forest_

 

 

Evan’s suitcase is half-packed and open. Jeans, socks, boxers, button-ups, and a travel toothbrush and toothpaste peek out of the zippered rim. His student papers are stuffed into his backpack along with some of his favorite DVDs and books. So this is for more than one night, then.

“Please,” Kate says, although she knows this has been coming for months, “please don’t leave right now. Not like this. We can talk about this. Let’s sit down and talk about this.” Kate never begs, has begged too much in the past for her friends’ lives in hostage situations gone bad, but now she doesn’t care. As long as it keeps Evan there, at home, with her, where he can hear her out and not just slam a door in her face, Kate will beg. She’ll swallow down the nausea and the clenching in her gut and say ‘please.’

Evan shrugs on his leather jacket and winds a scarf around his neck. It’s an abnormally cold winter for Chandler, and the wind-chill has been picking up outside. “I’m done Kate,” Evan says, zipping up his suitcase. “I’ve tried talking to you, and it doesn’t ever work. Marriage is a two-way street, and it feels like I’m driving down a one-way. You can’t have a relationship with anyone, Kate. Your job is your life, and there isn’t any room for anybody else.”

“That’s not me, Evan.” Kate’s eyes sting, and her chest hurts. Everything her husband is saying is true, but like hell if she’s going to admit to it. She can make room. She can. She just needs another chance. Just one more.

Evan slings his backpack over his shoulder. “What’s not you, Kate?” Throwing it right back in her face, and Kate wants to scream at him. What did he expect with this? The work she does is important. Of course it’s going to bleed into everything else, all the nooks and crannies. Facing criminals with bigger and better guns pointed at civilians you’re trying to protect isn’t something you can just shake off at the end of the day. It’s not like she’s a TA at a community college like Evan. It’s not like Kate merely faces the daily grind of nine to five, and then can go home and have a beer and have sex with her husband and pretend that the word is a perfectly safe place.

Evan walks past her, and doesn’t look back. He never did understand, Kate thinks. Just let it go. Let it go.

 

\--

 

Matt’s superiors have his balls in a vice. All the suits are lined up along and around the elongated conference table. The wood is shining, the surface gleaming. Bottles of Perrier and mugs of coffee mark each and every spot, twelve in total. Kate recognizes some faces, some not. The faces of these men that make decisions far above her. Decisions that are passed down the food chain. Becoming commands, calls to action. Orders to follow.

Kate sits in the corner of the room, removed. Observe. Learn. Matt’s usual rhetoric. What he didn’t count on was getting chewed-out with Kate as his only witness. “Josué Devalos has perfected this disappearing act,” Carl Fieanes says, “and apparently it’s too good for even us to get a bite on? Colombia wants his head on a spike, and they’re counting on us. We keep them happy. You helped bring that deal into existence, Graver. And what about Sonora, what’s left of it? Eliminating the competition? All these other cartels are running around like they own the streets that we’re supposed to be cleaning up. I want targets. I want you sending Gillick people to kill.”   

Matt bites the inside of his cheek, keeping his composure as best he can. Kate wonders if this is the type of pressure he was under when he first recruited her for his task force in Chandler, a lifetime ago. Kate clears her throat, and all the suits look at her like she’s an annoying gnat flying around their heads. “Actually,” Kate says, “Gillick’s in Mexico right now, handling a list I obtained under Graver’s orders.”

“From your late CI Gloria Rodriguez?” Fieanes asks, prominent and looming, the end of the spear at the head of the table. Kate can predict the insult before it comes, it’s so obvious. “The one who died in a car bomb?” Ah, there it is. “Well Ms. Macer, what a neat bow you tied around that whole fucking enterprise.”  

Jimmy Bonnet, on Matt’s right, intervenes. “It was very valuable intelligence Ms. Macer provided, despite the unfortunate outcome of the CI in question.”

Fieanes sighs, rubs at his face. He’s frustrated. They’re all human here, Kate reminds herself. Tamp down that anger and put a pin in it. “It was,” he amends. “But now, we need to look ahead. Big picture.”

The room empties after Fieanes’ diatribe comes to its conclusion, and Kate wonders when Alejandro’s flight gets in tomorrow. She hasn’t seen him since their joint-interrogation with Nathaniel Williams. Kate has other things to worry about right now, though. Like Matt, who’s still at the table, reports in front of him and his head in his hands. Kate goes over and pulls out the chair next to him.  “I’m sorry,” she says, sitting down. “They shouldn’t be fucking with you like this. They need a scapegoat.”

“I know,” Matt says. “Williams still withholding?”

Kate swallows, leaning back in her seat. Her frustration where Nathaniel Williams is concerned hit its peak days ago. “I’m trying Matt, I really am.”

Matt nods, eyebrows creased and nose scrunching up where his reading glasses are perched. Kate wouldn’t be surprised if he has a migraine coming on. “I know kiddo,” Matt says, and pats her hand. “I know.”

 

\--

 

Blood on her face; stains like Rorschach blots. Kate’s skin is tacky with it, reminding her of the maple syrup she drowned her pancakes in at Denny’s. The water is running, turned on full blast, but it’s still not enough. The little white and grimy sink in the cramped restroom is not enough to wash it all away. “God,” Kate sobs. “Goddammit.” She starts counting. One, two, three, four, five. She takes a deep breath. One, two, three, four, five. Kate stops, repeats. One, two, three, four, five. Deep breath.

Kate looks at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are clear and the flaming redness in her cheeks has calmed. Her neck and shoulders are relaxed and her face is clean. She remembers the man she killed just an hour back, that nameless man who came out of the closet in the duplex and pulled a gun on her. Kate saw him and fired, training simulations embedded in her bones, and he fell back onto the carpet, dead. Her first kill. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Kate counts down again, once more, for good measure. She puts the entirety of the morning into a box, and tapes it shut in her mind. Time to report to Dave. She can’t be a sniveling mess when she goes to see her boss. It’s hard enough trying to prove yourself as a female officer, and Kate can’t be too transparent when it comes to her emotions. Especially in front of her superiors.

 

\--

 

Devalos is a ghost. A needle in a haystack. A constant thorn in Kate’s side that she can’t reach, no matter how hard she tries. Ten months since Bogotá—since thirty-three men, women, and children were murdered—and the CIA can’t find him. Kate still feels the single surviving glass eye of the splintered figurine of the Holy Mother, covered in ash, observing her every move through the grainy photograph stocked in the filing cabinet by her desk. Haunting her, taunting her. You think you’re so skilled, so smart? Where’s justice for my children? Where’s righteous vengeance? And Kate wants that, judgment for Devalos. Maybe then she’ll find absolution for herself, for the things she’s done; and the things she continues to do to Nathaniel Williams day in and day out in the confines of a small holding cell, hidden away on the grounds of a Black Site.

Kate twists her engagement ring around her finger. Over and over, the simple band with a small diamond in the center goes in circles. It’s become a nervous tick for Kate, playing with her ring when she’s stressed. Like now, with her ears ringing and her temples throbbing and her eyes becoming blood-shot from looking at the screen of her laptop for so long. There’s something she’s missing, Kate thinks. Something in the transcripts of her interrogations with Williams; some golden nugget that’s there for her to sink her teeth into. A lead, a start. It’s there, and Kate just needs to keep combing through the highlighted blocks of text until she finds it.

Kate startles, hearing the door to her office opening. The creaks of hinges and the padding of feet. She’s been found out.  “Come up to bed,” Alejandro says from behind her. He settles a hand in Kate’s hair, and starts to message her scalp affectionately. “It’s two in the morning, and we made a deal to shoot for midnight.”

“Can’t,” Kate says, her eyes still fixed on her laptop’s screen and her elbows still perched on her desk. “There’s something I’m missing. I just know it.”

“You’re running yourself into the ground,” Alejandro says, and reaches over Kate’s shoulder to gently close the laptop shut. “You won’t be much help at all without some sleep.” He presses a kiss to the side of Kate’s head, and takes her hand to lead her upstairs. Kate sighs, closing her eyes and leaning into the touch. All the words and punctuation from the records were starting to blur together, anyway. Some rest will do her good.

 

\--

 

“You should stay at my place while you look for an apartment,” Reggie says.

“Yeah.” Kate picks at the dangling threads on the sleeve of her sweater. She can’t meet Reggie’s eyes right now. There’s too much sympathy in his eyes, lately. “Evan said he’d meet up with the real-estate agent about selling the house, so I’m free tomorrow. I could come by, drop off my stuff?”

“It’s a date,” Reggie says.

 

\--

 

There’s a ‘before,’ and then there’s an ‘after.’ A ‘before Thanksgiving’ and an ‘after Thanksgiving.’

The anonymous phone call has displaced any sort of peace at home, and Kate doesn’t know how to fix it. Everything seems the same on the surface, but it’s the smallest shifts in Alejandro’s behavior that give it all away. Now, he’ll hold Kate for a little while longer while they’re in bed; hold onto her a little more tightly. He’ll let Kate win every argument, most of the time, instead of putting up his usual fight. He’ll look at her like she’s bound to leave, to disappear, like there’s a ticking clock linked to her, and Kate can’t stand it.

She turns over in Alejandro’s hold one night, his arms looped around her and his legs tangled with hers under the blankets. “Listen,” Kate says, “nothing is going to happen to me.” And she knows the statement is inadequate, knows it’s an uncertainty she’s dressing up as fact. But, Kate can’t keep allowing Alejandro to live in fear of something that might not even happen without saying anything.

Alejandro just stares right back at her in silence. Liar, his thoughts echo.

 

\--

 

“You don’t understand,” Kate says. “You never tried to understand.”

She wasn’t going to call Evan. But now, Kate’s in her new apartment with cardboard boxes all around her and Chinese take-out on the counter. She sits on an air mattress on the floor. All of her and Evan’s furniture from the house is packed up in storage. Five years of going home to someone is harder to let go of than Kate originally thought it would be, and the silence is too much for her.

“You never tried to understand what it was like for me,” Kate continues, sniffling, and rubs at her runny nose. She wipes the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “And I wish you did because I—” Evan’s voicemail cuts her off. Kate’s message has gone over the given time limit. “—miss you,” Kate finishes.

 

\--

 

When dead ends pile up and the little to no evidence you have grows dry and stale, sometimes all you have is a prayer. Even if it’s a questionable source; brazen, barely cultivated, past a blank slate. Like, say, a young up and comer in the Sinaloa cartel who claims to have had contact with Devalos.

“How do we know he’s telling the truth?” Kate asks. “It could be a complete fabrication, and this guy doesn’t even know Devalos. Or, he’s overstating his access and any information he does have is negligible.” The words come out clipped and agitated. Kate’s control is slipping a little, and part of it is the location she’s in. Kate’s sitting at a conference table like any other back in Virginia, but she’s in Arizona. And when Kate’s in Arizona, her feet constantly feel an itch to run. It’s simply a place, a slab of dry land without any power over her. But Kate can’t help associating Evan, Reggie, blood, and bullets with the smoldering heat and deep canyons. Of course, it doesn’t help that Kate’s shirt is rucking up under her arms and her thighs feel like they’re glued to her leather seat. Sweat beads up around her temples, her hairline damp. Kate’s makeup is breaking down, separating in patches on her face. The air conditioning died mid-afternoon, and maintenance is working overtime to fix it.

Alejandro rests his hand on Kate’s leg under the table, a comforting weight. He hasn’t left her side since they landed at Luke Air Force Base with Matt. He knows what being in Arizona does to her, although Kate keeps all of her shit locked down like the pro she is and never lets it out for show. “It doesn’t matter,” Alejandro says. “This is the first concrete lead we’ve had in months.”

Kate looks over to Matt for support. She needs someone in her corner, although she’s quickly loosing ground. “You think the case is strong enough to justify sending Alejandro to Culiacán?”

“This kid’s not going to travel out of Mexico,” Matt says. “He’s not going anywhere where he doesn’t have sanctioned protection. And we haven’t been able to establish trust with him, yet. It was a long shot ever holding out hope that he would come to us.”

Kate reaches for Alejandro’s hand where it’s resting on her leg. There are too many red flags coming out of the woodwork, here.

“They’re chomping at the bit upstairs,” Matt says, and it sounds like an apology. I’m sorry. I tried my best, but Big Brother has me on a leash. “They want this to happen.”

“When?” Alejandro asks. He doesn’t let go of Kate’s hand.

“They want you on a plane Wednesday morning,” Matt says, “and you’ll meet up with senior agents from GAFE when you get to Culiacán. From there, you’ll go to see the CI. Hopefully, we’ll have you back by Friday along with information on where our big fish is.”

 

\--

 

The girl accepts the pack of Skittles from Kate with shaking hands, Abercrombie and Fitch shirt stained with mustard and grease. She doesn’t open up the candy. Instead, the girl stares down at her chest. “I ruined my new top,” she says.

Shock, Kate thinks. It makes you recognize the most inconsequential things. Anything to distract yourself from the trauma you just experienced. “Here,” Kate says, and opens up the Skittles for the girl, pouring some of them into the palm of her hand. “It helps with the shakes.”

The girl looks up at Kate for a long moment, as if waiting for permission, and then takes a yellow Skittle and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly. “What’s your name?” Kate asks.

“Claire,” the girl says, and picks up two green Skittles this time. Pairing colors. Grouping and selection. That’s good.

“Claire’s a beautiful name,” Kate says.

“I should have done more,” Claire says. “He was standing right by my table. I saw his ankle. I could have grabbed his foot and tripped him. I should have done something—”

“You did the only thing you could do,” Kate says. She reaches for Claire’s wrist, offering her contact. Comfort. “You were smart. You crouched on the floor the minute you heard the gun-shots. You hid, and waited for help. You did exactly what you were supposed to do, Claire. You did the right thing, okay? You did the right thing.”

Claire gulps. Her eyes are swimming with tears, but none of them fall. She takes four Skittles, and places them on her tongue, one by one. Calm, reassured. Not better, but getting there. “Thank you,” she says.

Kate gives Claire her best smile, genuine and relieved. Kate’s first time out as the head of her own response team, and she’s confronted with a high-school shooting. Just her luck. But it did end quickly, and cleanly; only five wounded, the shooter in custody, and no casualties. All in all, the day is a success.

 

\--

 

Something is off. Something is wrong. It’s been three hours, and Alejandro hasn’t called back. He always calls back. Kate reaches for her BlackBerry, and sends a quick message— _Hey, text me when you can. If you can’t call, just text._

Alejandro was in the car on his way to meet with the CI when he talked to her. GAFE escort in the backseat, everything going smoothly. “I’ll call when I get there,” he said. And Kate told him she loved him, and then hung up. Now it’s been three hours, and her phone still hasn’t rung. Kate can’t stop biting her nails. She hasn’t bitten her nails since she was six.

Someone calls her name and Kate turns around, nails bitten to the quick. It’s Carl Fieanes. “Can I see you in my office, Kate?”

“Of course,” Kate says, and gets up from her work-station to follow him. She hopes Fieanes doesn’t beat around the bush. She hopes he has an update for her. Matt’s out of commission, gone to DC to play the annual political circus, so the best source of information Kate has right now is Fieanes. He’s the one who will know anything before anyone else; before the news outlets and the media hound dogs. And thank God, because the last thing Kate wants is to be hearing any bad news curtesy of CNN.

They enter Fieanes’ office, and he gestures for Kate to sit down. “Please,” he says, following polite protocol; and Kate has to bite the inside of her cheek because all she wants to know is what the fuck is going on. The landline phone on Fieanes’ desk rings, and he reaches over to silence it, all the buttons on the switchboard flashing red. Over ten calls coming in. This isn’t good. Fieanes sits. His face is completely impassive, giving away nothing. Whatever is going on, he’s taking it in stride. “You’re Alejandro Gillick’s fiancé, correct?” Fieanes asks. “You’re noted as next of kin.”

“Yes,” Kate says. “Has something happened?” Stupid question. Kate wouldn’t be here in Fieanes’ office if something hadn’t happened.

Fieanes looks at Kate from above the rim of his glasses, taking a pause, and Kate knows he’s preparing to recite a memorized script. Correction: this isn’t just bad. This is terrible. “There was an ambush that took place at the entrance to the military compound,” Fieanes says. “Four cars and eight perpetrators with semi-automatics. GAFE lost two of their men, and we lost eight employees. Gillick was one of them. I’m sorry.”

“Um,” Kate shuffles in her seat. She squeezes the armrests tightly. “What?” No. No, this isn’t happening.

“It was a faulty tip,” Fieanes says. “The CI, the kid, came to the meeting with a bomb strapped under his shirt. What the shooters didn’t finish outside the gates, he finished inside. Set himself up to blow around the same time our transport was surrounded.”

Kate closes her eyes. Her breathing is so very loud in the small room. “Have they…” Kate stops, trying to arrange her words correctly, trying to have them make sense. “They… have they…” Speak, Kate thinks. Just speak. Ask your question. You can do it. “Made an official statement?” Kate finally manages to ask. “Who’s taken responsibility?”

“Sonora,” Fieanes says. “It was retaliation for Alarcón. An execution. How they knew it was Gillick, I have no fucking idea. Point is, they’ve already leaked a tape to the media outlets. It should be on the news within the hour.”

Along with claims of the CIA’s involvement dismantling Sonora, and supporting Colombia’s rise to power. Jesus. It’s going to be a shit-show. “I need to go,” Kate says, getting up out of her seat. Her legs feel like water, and her knees almost buckle. “I need to go,” she repeats. Fieanes says something, but Kate can’t hear him. She walks to the elevator, and makes her way up to Matt’s office. Kate picks the lock when she gets there, lets herself in, and shuts the door.

 

\--

 

The houses are burning, their foundations crumbling. The roofs cave in, flames licking at the shingles. Water from the fire-fighters’ hoses rains down, inconsequential. A red and orange haze settles over the suburban block, smoke obscuring the roads and sidewalks. Everything is eerily quiet. There are no screams or calls for help. Kate wonders if the victims were executed before being set on fire. Ten dollhouse like structures in a row, all incinerated. Ten homes with families inside. Mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, daughters and sons. All those lives, just for a show of power?

Those assholes knew they were coming. So, they torched the whole street. Left Matt and Kate a present wrapped in singed grass and charred fences.

“Savages,” Matt says, standing next to Kate. “All of them, savages.”

 

\--

 

Kate’s under Matt’s desk when the door opens. Legs scrunched up, head in her lap. She hasn’t moved for the past eight hours. The lights turn on and Kate moans, her eyes used to the pitch-black darkness.

“Kate?” Matt kneels down on the floor, the leather briefcase slung over his shoulder dripping water all over the carpet. Matt’s drenched. His eyes are rimmed red, and it looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten anything. That’s okay, Kate hasn’t either.  “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” he says. “All the roads were blocked on my way out of DC. Fucking weather reports. Tornado warnings.”

Kate looks at Matt, cheek resting on her legs, eyes blurred with tears. Somehow, him finally being here makes it all real.

Matt reaches out and places a hand at Kate’s back. Slow, tentative. He doesn’t want to startle her. “What do you want to do?” He asks.

“What I’m _going_ to do,” Kate says, “is track down and stick anyone involved in that fucking bogus operation. They’re going to tell me what I want to know, they’re going to lead me to the big guns, and then I’m going to damn well kill them.”

There’s a quirk of a smile on Matt’s face, resolved and determined. “I hold them down while you punch.”

“Deal,” Kate says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we’re finally in the last stretch of this! I’m not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out, but it was either letting it languish on my computer forever or just biting the bullet and posting it. And, I ended up choosing to bite the bullet. Hopefully it reads better than I think it does. Thanks to everyone who posted sweet comments on the last chapter. They made my stone-cold heart go all gooey inside.


	6. all great and precious things

 

 

 

“Very early in my life it was too late.”

 —MARGUERITE DURAS, _The Lover_

 

 

_ Matt _

 

Matt’s doing alright. His best friend was executed, shredded to pieces with twenty-one bullet holes in him, but Matt’s doing alright. Jess is starting preschool. Noah's acing every free throw in basketball. Allison placed first in the local spelling competition. He got a great deal on the perfume Carol wants for her birthday.

Little things. Pay attention enough, and they create a prime distraction. Afghanistan taught him that. You bury the body, and you go on. You don’t stop to remember. You never give into the grief gnawing at your belly. You go ahead, and you never stop moving.

 

\--

 

“She’s your responsibility, Matt. You put her in the field. Just because a kid jumps the nest, doesn’t mean you stop parenting them. Especially when they start making a _mo-ther-fuck-ing_ mess.”

Kate wiped the floor with a detainee. It wasn’t one of her best moments. And now, the agency’s putting her on notice. Well, telling Matt to tell her that they’re putting her on notice. Rage is all well and good when supplied with the appropriate outlet, but nearly killing a prisoner during a routine Q&A is not.

“She’s been through a lot,” Matt argues, the damn cliché words coming out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He wants to defend Kate, what can he say. Lowering himself to the role of a sentimental Lifetime movie extra in order to do it is fine by him.

 

\--

 

Kate’s unhinged. Going out of her mind. The only reason Matt isn’t, is that he has Carol and the kids to pull him back. Kate doesn’t have anyone, except for him. And Matt’s not the best person for the job, for the job of measuring how far is too far, because he wants exactly what Kate wants. Targets to shoot at. Heads on platters. Alejandro was his friend. If anything, him and Kate just egg each other on.

 

 

_ Kate _

 

“But in the end, you’ll understand.”

Fucking prophecies.

 

\--

 

Matt keeps a lid on his grief. It’s so carefully contained it pisses Kate off. Rage, Kate wants to shout at him. Break something.

He tells her to check herself. He tells her she’s operating without any regard for consequences. And boy, is that rich, coming from him. “Fuck you,” Kate spits, eyes burning. The roof of her mouth is as dry as sandpaper. “Fuck you.” She turns her back to Matt, buttons up her blazer against the fall cold she’s about to step out into. One of Alejandro’s shirts is tucked into her trousers. A comfort, a reminder.

“Jesus, Kate.” The tremor in Matt’s voice has her frozen on the spot. She’s never heard him sound like this. Broken up. Scared. He’s scared for her; has good reason to be, too. But, he’s never been transparent about it. Unlike now. “This is me telling you to reign yourself in,” he says. “For your own benefit. I know you’re out for blood. I get it. I do. But you keep this up, they’re going to be out for yours.”

The CIA. Her employers, who trained her to be apathetic and analytically precise when it comes to the job. But, this is personal. Her fiancé was shot dead like a dog. “What the hell do they expect?” Kate asks, not seeing any other way around this when there’s motor oil in her veins.

“Objectivity,” Matt says, and it sounds like a joke but it’s not. “Control.” He grips Kate’s wrist, gets her to face him. He’s her friend and superior all at once in this moment, voice gone cool and hard again, willing her to understand. “You need to get yourself under control,” he repeats.

“I…” Kate pulls Matt to her, puts her arms around him and squeezes tight. Because this is really all she has left, isn’t it? “I’m sorry,” Kate says into his collar. I need help. This is so much bigger than I can handle. “I’m sorry,” she says, again.

“We’re going to finish this,” Matt promises, chest flush against Kate’s. His hold on her is strong, assuring. “You need to be more careful, is all.”

 

\--

 

The question on everyone’s mind since the murders in Culiacán is this: how did Sonora’s leftovers manage to discover who carried out the assassination against Alarcón? The family was taken care of, as was the security in the jefe’s employ. Manuel Diaz was handled. None of the mules from the tunnels were left alive. Which would only leave the possibility of an interagency rat. Problem is, everyone involved with Matt’s task force—those who mounted it, those who were apart of it, those who had any general knowledge about it—come out of the internal investigation smelling as clean as a field of fucking daises.

Leaving Kate with nothing. Without a lead, a target, or a reason _why_. All she has is a quiet house. All she has are frozen dinners and a closet full of Alejandro’s clothes; some of which she wears when she’s not at the office. It’s morbid and laughable, but Kate supposes everyone copes with loss differently. She’s wearing one of Alejandro’s sweatshirts when she gets on the phone with Matt, asking whether or not they’ve done a comprehensive review of all the employees on Alarcón’s payroll—from maintenance to housekeepers to gardeners to cooks. Turns out there were stones left unturned, and they find Maria Guardia. Twenty-three, a single mother, and Alarcón’s maid.

“They threatened her family,” Matt informs Kate from Mexico after following up on the lead. “So, she provided them with an ID. The kicker is, Sonora got this info only several months after the completion of the op. Culiacán was years in the making. They found an in, and they took it. Played us for chumps.”

A loose end. They always come back to haunt you, no matter how inconsequential they may seem at the time. Kate can’t hold it against the woman, though—the lives of her family weighed against the life of some nameless sicario? No, Kate doesn’t blame her. She just wishes Alejandro had shot her in the head, too.

 

\--

 

The over easy eggs, white halos with gooey orange centers, spit canola oil and salt as they sizzle in the pan. Carol flips them over with the spatula and says to Kate, “I know you’re an adult and Matt can take on the mantle of pseudo parent a little too easily, but he just wants you to be okay. He loves you. He sees you as the kid sister he never had.”

Kate pulls the muffins out of the oven. They’re plump and covered in brown sugar and candied fruit. Another attempt of Carol’s to pack every meal she makes for Kate with as much starch and fat as possible. Because, really, the only time Kate ever eats a decent meal is when Carol cooks for her. “I love him, too. And I _am_ his sister, and he’s my brother.” Kate puts her hand on Carol’s shoulder. “You’re both family to me,” she says. “You, Matt, and the kids.”

 

\--

 

There’s the phantom press of an arm draped across her midsection, the feel of the mattress dipping beside her and the blankets being rearranged. The plane must have been delayed. He’s gotten in late, again.

“Alejandro? Baby?” Kate reaches out for him, curls into his side of the bed, where his warmth should be. But, there’s no one there. It’s cold. Kate opens her eyes, chest seizing up painfully and nausea coming over her in waves. It’s happened before, many times, Kate suspended between being asleep and being awake, thinking Alejandro’s there when he’s not. After Culiacán, it was every night.

Now, it doesn’t happen as much as it used to.

 

\--

 

Steve shows up at the foot of her work-station right before Kate’s about to head home, with a USB disk in hand and a look on his face that reads— _I just found something big_. It’s a good look on him, one Kate hasn’t seen for awhile. “Computer is all yours,” she says, no questions asked, and Steve goes to insert the disk.

“I don’t want to speak to soon,” he says, voice tinged with an edge of excited mania, “but we think we found Devalos.”

The words filter through, register in her head. And Kate doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything at all. How do you respond when presented with a possible piece to the puzzle you’ve been trying to solve for so long?

Kate leans over the computer monitor. Steve’s at her back, brushing her arm when he goes to click on the mouse. A video pop-up window on the screen begins to play. Security footage rolls, and Kate watches a figure walk across a crowded street. A man: stocky, with a thatch of course hair framing his face, wearing an over-large winter coat which swallows him whole. Kate feels like someone has punched all the air from her lungs. “ _Shit_ ,” she says as she watches Josué Devalos—the murderer, the elusive specter she’s been chasing for years—walk across the street to a run-down apartment complex, as mundane as can be.

Steve pauses the video and chuckles. Half relief, half frustration. “This was taken from a security camera in Chicago. The bastard’s been in the goddamn states for Lord knows how long when we’ve been combing through all of shitting South America. What do you want to do, Kate?”

Kate closes her eyes. Her bottom lip trembles slightly, and her palms feel cold and clammy. What does she want? She wants a bullet in Devalos’ head by the end of the day. She wants to turn the apartment complex into playground gravel with him inside. “Call Matt’s extension and get him on the line,” she says, “right now.”

 

\--

 

The ability to doubt ceases, he’d said. When results are worth everything, the ability to doubt ceases. Alejandro said that. He’d said that to her. The very first day Kate stepped foot into Langley, and he’d been taken aback by her pearl earrings and silk blouse.

Alejandro drove her home at five. Traffic was weaved around the highway’s ramps and rails, a sea of cars. “You do Greek?” He’d asked.

“I could live off tzatzki sauce,” Kate said; immensely grateful to not have to go home right away, to an empty house. It hadn’t felt right since Alejandro left, since she’d asked him to leave. The armchair by the television set was empty. There wasn’t the rustle of Alejandro turning the pages of a book while Kate flipped through channels, always settling on a soap opera more often than not.  There’s wasn’t an extra bath towel in the laundry hamper at the end of the day. There wasn’t anyone there to coax her out of her nightmares.

“It’s on me,” Alejandro said, and switched lanes to take the upcoming exit.

Kate leaned her head against the back of her seat, eying him; the tailored suit, the soft planes of his face, the sunlight bouncing off the lenses of his Ray-Ban’s. Happiness bloomed in her chest.

 

 

_ You _

 

The liaison they’ve assigned you is dressed down and so against type you almost think someone, somewhere, is playing a practical joke. He’s wearing scuffed-up tennis shoes and a novelty t-shirt. His khakis aren’t even ironed. But he has a badge around his neck which advertises all the appropriate credentials, getting you through security quickly. “Name’s Matt,” he says. And you try to introduce yourself, to entertain the standard meet and greet, but when you tell him your name he simply nods dismissively. As if to say, I know. You really don’t need to tell me. I’m already several steps ahead.

You walk through a series of doors which Matt opens for you. His key-fob is waved across each one, allowing him access, keeping with standard precautions. He’s the gatekeeper and you’re merely a guest. There’s no way in without him. And no way out, either. Matt points ahead, and you look forward. There’s a woman coming down the opposite end of the hallway. “That’s my girl, Kate.” Matt says the name with open affection. “Best section chief you’ll ever meet.” He emphasizes the statement with a wide grin, all teeth and nonchalant confidence.

The woman, Kate, reaches the both of you. “Is this the new fish?” She asks, brushing shoulders with Matt, casually crowding up into his personal space. Kate’s dressed down herself, although her appearance is a bit more polished. Her hair spills over her shoulders, and her jeans and cardigan combination is completely unassuming. She’s wearing an engagement ring around her neck, a simple band with a small diamond in the center, and you wonder why it’s not on her finger.

“That it is,” Matt says.

“Are you working point?” You ask.

“Yes,” Kate says, “you’ll be answering to me.” Then she turns her attention to Matt, crossing her arms over her chest and wrinkling up her nose in mock annoyance, like a little girl might do with her older brother. “You’re late, by the way.”

“I got held up,” Matt says, as if that’s the very best answer her can come up with.

Kate just rolls her eyes. “Let’s go de-brief. Steve has everything ready to go.” She directs you to the elevators, and the three of you crowd into one. She punches the button for the twenty-sixth floor. On the entire ride up you feel like more of a third wheel than anything, with Kate and Matt chatting away about an assignment someone named Vance just got in Venezuela. When you finally get off on the twenty-sixth floor, the room you end up entering is the size of a shoe-box—a hole in the wall. The higher-ups really weren’t joking when they alluded to this assignment being off the books and entirely under the radar. “This is Steve,” Kate says, introducing you to the man who’s powering up the projector. He gives you a brusque wave, saying nothing. Apparently, like Matt, he’s not so much into introductions.

“It’s ready when you are,” he says to Kate, and hands her a remote. She takes her place at the front of the room, while you and Steve and Matt all sit together on three fold-out chairs which are clustered together.

Kate brings up the first slide, the CIA’s logo coming up on the screen. She looks at you. Grey-blue and focused, unwavering. There’s a wealth of history behind those eyes; some bad, some good. You can tell she’s lived. She’s young, mid-thirties, but she’s lived a long time. More than most people. “This is where we start,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just need to say, thank you to everyone for being so patient while waiting for this final chapter. It’s been a very difficult time for me since last November, and so I had no idea if this ending would ever see the light of day. I felt extremely drained and uninspired when it came to this story. But thanks to the new comments/kudos some have left, and the sweet messages others have sent over on Tumblr, I felt encouraged to sit down and try to finish this. Your feedback matters, and now I can finally say I finished a multi-chapter fic.
> 
> Like I said, I’ve been roped into the all-consuming pit of social media. So if you want to follow, or drop by and say hi, I’m [Highsmith](http://highsmith.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr.


End file.
